Girl Missing (The Messenger Series)
by H.R. Aidan
Summary: Noa Drury is the new Nancy Drew... with ghosts. ;) Holly Winslow is missing. Her parents insist she's a runaway. But PI's daughter Noa Drury isn't buying it, not least because she's had a 'visitor' who has suggested otherwise. You see, Noa has a 'gift' - she passes on messages to the living from the spirit world, and finding Holly is one job she is determined to see delivered.
1. The Messenger

**1 – THE MESSENGER**

* * *

The door to Dad's study is ajar. Through the crack I see a man and woman, he tall and bony, she squat and dumpy, both upset, sitting on our sway-backed couch.

'But you must help us find our daughter,' the man pleads, his voice thin and reedy. 'You _must_ keep looking.'

'Mr Winslow, I'd like nothing more than to find her, but the fact is without police involvement my options are limited. I've run out of leads,' my father says. I can't see him but know he will be standing in front of his corkboard wall, arms crossed, heavy brow furrowed, eyes lined with tiredness. I've watched him working on this case for the past fortnight, going over transcripts and timelines by the dim light of his desk lamp, trying to spot any possible clue to the missing girl's whereabouts.

'The police can't be involved,' the man says, his tone suddenly sharp. 'She's run away, we're sure of it.'

Personally, I find it a bit weird that the Winslows are so against calling the police. But they think because their daughter Holly is mixed up in drugs they'll get her into even more trouble than she's in already. It's been driving Dad crackers. See, he's a private investigator, but he's hardly Sherlock Holmes. His cases are usually insurance scams or suspected infidelity based, not missing persons so he's really been sweating over this one.

I'd like to stay and listen in some more but Max is waiting for me outside. I knock on the door and hear my father excuse himself for a moment. The door opens and Dad frowns at me, impatient.

'Yes?'

'I'm going out,' I say.

He looks at his watch. 'It'll be dark in an hour.'

'I've got a lamp on my bicycle and I'll have –' I stop myself. Dad doesn't appreciate Max's presence as much as I do. 'I'll have Spock with me.'

We both look at the dog stood beside me, tail going like a windscreen wiper, tan eyebrows arched, one ear sticking up. I called him Spock because of his ears, but most people mishear me. It really grates on me that people think I was so unimaginative as to call my dog _Spot_.

'Where are you going?' Dad asks.

I glance towards the couch. Mrs Winslow sniffs. Mr Winslow is looking on with interest, icy eyes an almost transparent window to the workings of his mind, appraising me, questioning me.

'To deliver a message.' I give Dad a meaningful look.

See, I'm not what you'd call your average teenager. And it's not because my dad's a PI (trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds) or because I can pick even the securest of locks within sixty seconds (don't ask). Really, on the surface of things I appear just like everyone else. Okay, maybe I don't keep up with the latest fashion trends (what's so wrong with black, anyways?), but you know, I've got more important things to think about. Like delivering messages.

'Must you go?'

I follow Dad's pained gaze back into his study and see he's looking at the pictures of Holly Winslow on his corkboard wall and it occurs to me that it mightn't be a coincidence that he's been particularly fussy about me this past fortnight. Holly isn't so different to me with her slim build and wild hair (red though, not black).

'Of course I must. It's my job.'

'It's not a job you asked for, and it's certainly no job for a child.'

I cross my arms and glare at him. 'I'm sixteen. I'm hardly a child.'

Dad glares back. Behind him, Mrs Winslow sniffs again and dabs at her swollen eyes with a tissue. A flash of annoyance crosses Dad's face. 'No later than ten, you hear?'

* * *

I bounce my bicycle down the steps from our front door onto the pavement where Max is lounging against a lamppost, ankles crossed, hands hooked into his pockets. My mood lightens at the sight of him. His curly dark hair is messy and damp; his dirty breeches and scuffed brown boots make him look like he's just been out riding horses, but I long ago came to accept this as his usual attire.

'You took your time,' he says, pushing himself upright. He has a straight narrow nose, sharp cheekbones and pointed chin, but when his blue eyes turn down at the sides as he smiles a fan of laughter lines soften his features.

'You got some place better to be?' I say.

A woman passing by with her hands full of bulging shopping bags gives me a strange look and wide berth. I'm used to it by now though.

Max looks thoughtful. 'Well, now that you mention it…'

Spock jumps into my arms, back claws scrabbling at my t-shirt and I transfer him into the basket of my bicycle where he makes himself comfortable, licking his lips and looking self-important. I mount my bike and turn to Max.

'You gonna be able to keep up?'

'Aren't you going to give me a lift?' His eyes twinkle with mischief. 'You won't even know I'm there.'

'Yeah, nice try.' I shake my head and pedal the first wobbly yards up our Cambridge city street. Only Max Templeton can get away with comments like that. He's my oldest, closest friend. Strictly out of bounds though. When I was fourteen, fifteen, I used to wonder if we might – well, you know what it's like. Nowadays I've made myself stop being all nervy and girly around him, it just confuses him. It could never work. He's one of my only friends too. See, as you'll come to realise soon, I have a knack for freaking people out. I'm not Wednesday Addams by any means, but we're probably on the same train.

* * *

'Genie Ackroyd?' I ask the woman who has opened the door of an old Victorian terraced house. There is a real estate's SOLD sign nailed to stone façade above a hanging basket of limp flowers. I hadn't actually been given a helluva lot of information to go on, just her name, her address, and the message.

'Yes?'

She's younger than I'd imagined her to be, late twenties, but looking haggard, short fair hair framing a square face and distinctive violet eyes that appear devoid of joy or hope.

I take a deep breath and glance at Max beside me. This bit's never easy. He nods.

'I have a message for you.' I try to keep my tone as gentle as possible. 'Can I come in?'

'A message from whom?'

I hesitate. At my feet, Spock gives a plaintive whine. He's trying his best to be obedient, sitting on the mat, his tail thumping.

'From your mother, Freda Ackroyd.'

There is a flash of pain in Genie Ackroyd's eyes then she shakes her head. 'I'm sorry. You must be mistaken. My mother passed away three months ago.' She starts to close the door and I instinctively step forward.

'I know,' I say, looking her straight in the eye.

'What?' Genie pulls anxiously at a thread on her faded blouse.

'Miss Ackroyd, Genie, may I call you Genie? I know this is difficult. Maybe we could sit down and I'll explain.'

The woman's eyes glisten with tears and her mouth twists in bitterness. 'Who do you think you are?' she spits. 'How dare you play on people's misfortunes to get into their homes? What do you want?'

'My name is Noa Drury. I am a messenger, and I have a message for you from your mother. She told me you're selling her house.' I hold my breath, waiting for her to slam the door or scream for someone to help rid of her cracktop visitors.

'A message?' she whispers.

I nod. She nods as well, as if mesmerised, and I know she's moments away from letting me in. She wants so bad to believe I'm for real. Then her eyes cloud with suspicion.

'Nonsense! What utter nonsense! I know your type.' She looks me up and down with a derisive sneer. 'Although you're younger than most. Just another con artist psychic who's read the obituaries, am I right?'

'No–'

She doesn't wait for a full reply. The door slams shut, making Spock skitter backwards.

I look at Max. 'Well, you were a great help.'

He just shrugs. 'What did you want me to do? She didn't give us much opportunity to prove anything.'

With a sigh, I crouch down, warding off Spock's kisses and open the letter box. 'She wanted you to find something,' I yell through the bristles. 'Before you sell the house. It was important to her, but she died before she got the chance to–'

'Go away!' screams Genie from somewhere beyond the door. 'Go away, you horrible girl! Don't you think this is hard enough as it is?'

I squeeze my eyes shut. Sometimes I really don't like my job. 'In her bedroom there is a cupboard,' I call through. 'There is a loose panel that is being propped closed by a shoe rack. Behind it is a box and inside the box are the keys and map to a place in the Fens she and your father used to visit. She wants you to have it.' I pause. There's no response from Genie, so presumably she's listening. Probably wondering which asylum I escaped from. 'She says it's not much, just a little getaway, but it was important to her. It has many memories for her. She doesn't want it to go to rot.'

The door is suddenly yanked open and I fall backwards. Genie glares down at me.

'If it was so important, how come I've never heard about it?'

'I don't know. Perhaps you'll find out if you go there.'

'You phony letch. Get off my doorstep!' she screams. The door slams shut again, making all of us jump.

I look around. In the fading light of dusk, passersby look our way and curtains from nearby houses, glowing from the electric light behind them, twitch. I get to my feet and dust myself off.

'Aren't we going to stick around, make sure she finds the keys and map?' Max asks.

I hoist Spock back into my bicycle basket. 'Nope. I'm not sticking around here any longer than I have to. For all I know she's gone to get a shotgun.'

'Now you're being melodramatic.'

'You're all right.' I gesture to Max standing to the side of the front step. 'I, on the other hand, am rather more vulnerable than you.'

Max looks back up at the row of Victorian terraces and sighs. 'Oh, I do miss it sometimes.'

'Well, it's getting dark. Dad's going to kill me. So you can have a wander down memory lane if you like. I'm going home.'

'Righto. You'll be okay cycling back by yourself?'

I roll my eyes. He's as bad as Dad, but he still makes me smile. It's nice to know someone cares for you. 'What are you going to do, shout "boo" at any muggers?'

Max looks affronted. 'I do the haunting thing very well, thank you very much.'

I shake my head, and almost laugh. With a last farewell I watch him walk down the street of old houses and fade away until at last there is nothing but an empty street and the faintest chill in the air. Max Templeton, who died in 1899 in a fox-hunting accident on his grandfather's Cambridgeshire estate, has returned to whatever spirit world he came from.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016

 **I'm not new to writing, but this is my first attempt at writing for YA. I'd love to know what you think!**


	2. Fleeting Spirit

**2 – FLEETING SPIRIT**

* * *

Max is an anomaly when it comes to spirits. He's the only one who's appeared to me more than once. When I was younger I didn't even realise he _was_ a spirit. I just used to think he was a dashing young man who spent a lot of time riding horses or rather wearing riding gear. I've never actually seen a spirit horse with him. I presume they must exist. Max calls himself my 'spirit guide', but I don't know. I've seen blind people with more guidance than him.

On my way to bed later that evening I pause outside Dad's study to blow on and take a sip of my hot chocolate. In the solitary light of his desk lamp Dad is unpinning the photos and timeline cards of the Holly Winslow case from the corkboard wall and stacking them into a box resting on the corner of his desk. Dad's not so keen on Max. Back when he was still in denial about my 'gift' I used to say Max was my imaginary friend. My mother never used to say that. I remember her sitting across from me, her straight black hair falling in waterfalls off her shoulders, her coffee-coloured complexion smooth over her pronounced bone structure. She'd leant forward and cupped my jaw and pressed her thumb down my forehead between my brows and whispered, 'You have a gift, _carina_. You must use it well.'

I watch my father pause to take a gulp from his tumbler of gin. I see the bottle on the desk is already half empty. He calls it his painkiller. I think of Genie Ackroyd and wonder if she's doing something similar.

My life is surrounded by pain. Every message that I deliver has razor blades attached, ready to cut and slice the recipient with its every word. Why do I do it then? I don't know – well, maybe I do. You see, I don't really understand it all. I don't know why I was 'chosen'. It's not like I'm some divine child or anything. I'm tactless, I don't particularly know what to do when people start crying around me, especially adults, and I don't recall ever having attended a church service. But all these visits that I get, all the messages, all the requests, they come from all sorts – young, old, black, white, kind, brusque, always different, never the same person twice. And every day I wait and the one person I long to see never comes. So, I guess I do this in the hope that one day I will be rewarded with a visit from my mother.

Dad chucks another bundle into the box. The box becomes unbalanced and it falls onto the floor, spilling out its contents. Dad curses and lowers himself carefully to his knees to start restacking.

'Want a hand?' I ask.

He looks up. 'You off to bed?'

I nod and walk over and set my hot chocolate down on his desk. 'In a minute.' I try to ignore the gin bottle beside the telephone and the empty glass tumbler next to it. 'They didn't give you much choice,' I tell him. 'And if they're really that anxious about her they'll have gone to police by now, right?'

Dad sighs and climbs to his feet and hefts the restacked box back on the desk corner. 'I guess so. They're obviously not as worried about her whereabouts as they are about the police finding out about her drug problem.'

I unpin a picture of Holly, taken in front of a statue of two hands morphed onto bodies. She is smiling, her eyes bright as sunshine on a pond, her cheeks like polished apples, a swarm of freckles over her nose. Her hair is a forest fire of colour.

'She doesn't look like a junkie,' I say.

Dad takes the photo, glances at it briefly before tossing it into the box. 'That was taken about four months ago just before they left Germany to come live over here. She only got mixed up with drugs when they moved over here.'

'You mean she's only lived in England for four months and she's run away?' I can't keep the doubt out of my tone or my expression.

Dad shrugs. 'Three months actually. The family move around a lot for Henry Winslow's work. Before Germany it was Croatia, Belgium before that. They're British originally though.'

'Might she have gone back to Germany?'

Dad pulls a face and unscrews the lid of his gin bottle to refill his glass. The metal scratches against the glass, squeaking, it's a sound so familiar to me now I hardly hear it.

'Maybe,' he says. 'Nothing that I could find though without raising suspicions.'

I think of Holly's father, tall and weedy with an Adam's apple that made his neck look crooked, his plaintive desperation switching to adamant hostility when Dad had suggested involving the authorities. 'Are you sure there isn't another reason her parents doesn't want to tell the police?'

Dad doesn't look up from his task of pouring out another gin. 'He was my number one suspect to begin with, but his alibi checks out. He was in Frankfurt, at the book fair there. He's an author. Holly's mum reported her missing, pointed the finger at this guy.' He turns back to the corkboard and gestures to another photo still waiting to be taken down. It is of a boy in his late teens with dyed black hair moulded into impressively sharp spikes. There is more metal in his ears and eyebrows than on a janitor's keyring.

'Who's that?' I take it down to get a closer look. The lamp in Dad's office isn't the brightest.

'Holly's boyfriend, Jonathan Kilpin.' Dad looks unenthused. 'Henry Winslow says he's the one who got her involved in drugs, but there's nothing to pin on him, despite what appearances might suggest.'

Jonathan Kilpin does look a bit scary at first, but behind the piercings and extreme hairstyle I see soft grey eyes, a slightly haunted look that drug abuse probably hasn't helped, and a mouth as sculpted as yacht's hull. Sometimes I think adults are blinded by appearances, by "armour". I don't venture my opinion any further. Dad doesn't even like me mentioning Max; he certainly wouldn't appreciate me taking the side of a junkie whose girlfriend has been missing for a fortnight.

'Do you think she's dead?' I ask.

He shrugs and sits down in his swivel office chair, slouching, propping up his elbow on the armrest so his gin tumbler is at face level for easy conveyance. 'Parents seem pretty convinced she's run away. Might be that she did run away, but got herself into more trouble than she'd bargained for.'

That makes more sense to me. Holly strikes me as independent and slightly rebellious. Moving country the whole time must have been tough, she would've learnt how to survive by herself, with few friends. And if she was dating Jonathan Kilpin – well, no good little Daddy's girl would get involved with a character like him.

'How can someone just disappear like that though?' I muse.

Dad blows out his cheeks and raises his hands in resignation. 'Your guess is as good as mine.' He looks unenthusiastically at the half-packed box then his gaze drifts over to the gin bottle. 'Why don't you go on to bed, Noa? I'll finish up here.'

* * *

It's a warm night, but as soon as I step into my bedroom my body prickles with cold. At my heels, Spock growls. I pause. I know by now what this means and I hastily put my hot chocolate on my bedside table. My 'visitors' have a habit of sneaking up on me. I don't bother turning the light on, moonlight pouring through the open window is light enough. I lean out of it. From here I have a ground level view of our miniscule backyard and the cemetery beyond, partly obscured by the holly hedge that marks the boundary.

The hedge rustles.

'Max?' I call softly.

It can't be Max. He never comes back twice in a day. He says it's exhausting enough just making one trip. I think I catch the sound of crying but the wind is picking up and I can't be sure it isn't that. If it's a spirit then they may need some reassurance coming out, it can be a daunting experience for them. I hoist myself onto the window ledge and swing my legs round then jump to the ground outside. Spock jumps up to the ledge behind me, still growling. His hackles are raised.

'Ssh, Spock. Let me listen.'

The night is silky silent, only the distant drone of late night traffic passing through Cambridge disturbs the peace. Fat drops of rain start to fall. I hear another muffled cry. Despite myself, unease prickles my pores.

'Hello?'

I think of the Winslow girl. We're around the same age, same build. If she was murdered… I look around for some sort of weapon. Can I defend myself with a flower pot?

The hedge rustles again, then movement. My knees wobble but I take a step forward. I'm only scaring myself. I'm being stupid. No spirit has ever harmed me. Yet. My heart pounds in my ears. The rain becomes more persistent. Whatever is in there is about to break free. I hold my breath, bracing myself for the attack.

A hedgehog pops out and waddles over to investigate the rubbish bins. I choke out a relieved laugh and wipe the rain from my eyes. I'm glad Max isn't here to see my stupidity. I turn to my bedroom window thinking about my hot chocolate when a sudden gust of wind whips through the garden.

' _Help me_.' The words are no more than a whisper. But they are clear and desperate.

I spin around, clawing my damp hair out of my eyes. I glimpse a teenage girl running past. Her colouring, like all spirits, has a slightly desaturated tone to it, but nothing can hide her wild red hair.

'Wait!' I yell. I try to catch hold of her – not something I've ever tried to do before – but my hand folds on nothing but cold wet air, kind of like I've just put my hand in the deep freeze.

Spock barks from the open window.

She looks at me with round frightened eyes. 'Where am I? Please, you must help me!'

My heart thuds in urgency as I get a proper look at her through the downpour. Thunder crashes overhead. She's as drenched as me but there's no mistaking that hair. 'It's okay.' I try to keep my voice calm. 'My name is Noa. I can help you.'

'Where am I?'

The wind whirls around the yard, howling angrily as the space restricts its passage. She cowers away from the wind and rain, and even I'm struggling to keep my feet. The eucalyptus tree hisses like a pit of snakes. Spock is going mad. The girl begins to fade.

'Wait!' I cry. I reach out again, but it's too late. The wind has sucked her back through the hedge to the cemetery.

I run to it and scrabble against the foliage, but it's too dense. I stop. My hands and arms sting from the scratches. The wind dies down to a docile sigh and even the rain eases off. Spock stops yapping. A feeling of calm, of balmy summer rain, resumes. The girl has gone.

My gut twists in anguish because now I know for certain that Holly Winslow isn't a runaway. Holly Winslow is dead.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	3. Prying Eyes

**3 – PRYING EYES**

* * *

'I'm not making it up!' I say furiously. I slam my fist down on the kitchen table, making my buttered toast jump.

Dad thumps the milk carton down on the worktop and it sloshes out of the top.

'Is that what you expect me to tell the Winslows?' he says, placing his arms wide on the table and leaning forward so he's almost at eye level with me in my seat. '"Sorry, Mr and Mrs Winslow, Holly's dead, but the only proof I can offer you is that my teenage daughter bumped into her ghost the other night."'

We glare at each other for a minute and all our simmering tensions bubble to the surface.

'Don't you believe me?' I ask.

'Of course _I_ believe you . But…' He turns away with a frustrated huff, but not before I catch his expression. I know what he's thinking. Dad used to call it Mum's 'Peruvian voodoo'. He will never understand, no matter how hard he tries. No one can understand it, not until they experience it.

'But you don't want to tell anyone in case they think I'm wacko?' I say.

Dad pours his coffee, doesn't look up. 'I'm sorry, Noa. I know you're only trying to help, but I can't give it to the Winslows.' He looks around at me, his eyes pleading with me. 'How would it look if that was all the intelligence I could provide? What would that do for my reputation?'

I bite my lip to stop myself from speaking. Dad doesn't need my help to make a mockery of his reputation. 'So, you're just going to ignore it then? That Holly Winslow's dead in a ditch somewhere and you're just going to move on?'

Dad shakes his head and takes a seat at the kitchen table. 'Are you absolutely sure it was her?'

He slides a picture of Holly across the table so it's right next to my plate. I glance at it and open my mouth to say of course I'm sure, but I hesitate. I frown at the picture. 'Is this a recent photo?'

Dad nods. 'Taken a couple of months ago.'

I pick the photo up to study it closer. It's her, I'm sure of it, yet something seems different. Does death change us physically? Does murder change us? I suppose so, although it wasn't like she was dripping with blood or had an axe hanging out of her head last night.

'Well?'

I give Dad my most insolent look and toss the photo back on the table. 'It's her.'

'Did she tell you where she was? Any clue whatsoever? What did she say exactly? And I mean _exactly_.'

I shrug and take a bite from my toast. Nothing Holly said will help Dad with the investigation. 'Just that she was lost, and that she wanted help. She kept saying "Help me, help me. I don't know where I am." She wanted me to find her.'

'That's not much to go on, is it?'

'She might come back.' Although I say it, there's little conviction in my voice.

'Have they ever come back?' Dad asks. And he's right, of course.

I shake my head. 'Not apart from Max.'

Dad ever so slightly tenses at the mention of Max's name, like he's some threat to his precious daughter's innocence. Ha! I made the mistake of one time saying that Max sometimes visits me at night when I'm in bed and he's somehow twisted that in his head to mean something else. But it's not, it's just the only time Max and I can have a private conversation without people either butting in or looking at me like I'm mad because they can't see or hear him.

'And what does Max have to say about all this?'

I wish he wouldn't use that sarcastic tone when talking about him. He doesn't even know Max. 'I haven't seen him since yesterday.'

Dad shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. 'Then there's not much I can do, not unless she visits you again. Besides, I've got a new case to concentrate on.'

I crunch through my toast. Spock whines from by my feet and scrapes his claws against my jeans. Out of habit I break off a piece and feed it to him.

'What's this one about?' I ask Dad.

'Oh, nothing so interesting,' he says with a vague wave of his hand. 'Just a dodgy insurance claim. A dairy farmer is claiming on one of his barns being burnt down. The insurance company think it was him to who set fire to it.'

He's right, it doesn't sound particularly interesting. I sigh, reliving last night's events. If not her words, what else could give us a clue as to Holly's whereabouts? Her clothes hadn't been torn or dirty, her face and hands weren't noticeably injured. But her eyes…

'She was scared, you know,' I say. 'Lost, alone, and scared. Yet everybody seems a helluva keen on just giving up looking for her.'

'I'm not giving up –'

I scrape my chair back. I don't want to hear any more pathetic grown up reasons explaining away their failures. I toss the remainder of my toast to Spock who catches it and wolfs it down in one fluid movement, and walk out of the kitchen.

* * *

The night is quiet. I don't know how long I fell asleep for but it must be late. The house creaks and sighs like an old ship as me and Spock tip toe out of my bedroom. The light in the lounge is still on and I peer left around the archway to see Dad asleep on his recliner, snoring, his glasses askew, a book fallen from his dangling hand.

Before I can stop him, Spock trots over, his claws clicking on the floorboards, up to Dad and licks his fingers. I cringe and whip back out of sight.

Dad's snoring continues unabated, and I hazard another look. 'Spock!' I hiss. 'Come here!'

Spock rolls his boiled egg eyes in my direction and for once, comes to heel. My admonishment will have to wait for the moment. Dad shifts in his sleep, muttering, 'Don't, Isabel. Don't be so selfish…' His head rolls to the other side and he resumes his snoring.

I freeze, wondering what my mother is saying or doing in his dream. What memories I have of my mother are fond ones – I was eight when she died, so everything I recall about her is seen through the naïve and trusting eyes of a child. But on the rare occasions when she enters my dreams we are often arguing. I wonder if it's the same for Dad.

Spock whines, refocussing my attention. I should get on with my mission before he gets us caught. I creep past the lounge archway to a doorway on the right – Dad's study. A floorboard creaks beneath the pressure of my foot and I wince. I look over my shoulder. I can just see the tight black curls of the top of Dad's head where he lies, undisturbed.

I slip into the study with Spock at my heels and I ease the door closed. It clicks shut and I am once again in darkness. I creep across the room, feeling for couches and desks and chairs. My big toe finds the couch first and I hiss through my teeth as pain erupts up my foot. From the couch it's easy enough to limp over to the desk where I know the lamp will be.

Once the dim light is on and I can see properly I turn on Spock. 'What do you think you were doing? Next time you can just stay behind.'

Spock licks his chops and sits down, tail wagging, ever the obedient pooch. Yeah, right.

I take stock of Dad's messy desk and corkboard wall. Pictures of Holly Winslow have been replaced with pictures of the smouldering remains of a barn. Where is that box Dad was stashing all of Holly's stuff? I hope he hasn't shredded it all. I try the filing cabinet beside the desk. The top drawer is locked but the bottom one slides open with an unoiled squeak. Instead of the Holly Winslow case though, I find an old tattered pashmina of faded peacock colours. It's Mum's. I can't recall her ever wearing it, but it can only be hers. I pick it up and bury my nose in its soft cashmere folds. I close my eyes and breathe her in but instead all I can smell is gin.

'Goodness, you are an odd girl. What are you doing now?'

Max's voice makes me leap back in fright into Dad's chair. The chair rolls back and collides with the wall.

'Max!' I hiss. 'What the hell? Do you have to sneak up on me like that?'

Unperturbed, Max walks over to the couch and stretches out, boots and all. 'What are you doing snooping around your father's office?'

I stuff Mum's shawl back into the cabinet drawer and head over to the door to listen for Dad. All is quiet on the western front.

'Not that it's any of your business, but I'm trying to help someone.'

'In here?'

'Dad's missing person's case,' I say, continuing my search for Holly's box. 'That Holly Winslow? I was visited by her spirit yesterday after we went to see Genie Ackroyd.'

Max sits up like toast popping out of a toaster. 'You've another message to deliver?'

'A different type of message, but yes. She's lost, and she's obviously dead. I think she wants me to find her. Aha!'

I find the box wedged beneath the desk and drag it out and heave it onto the desk. A gin bottle on its side rolls towards the edge. I grab it before it falls and set it upright.

Max wanders over to peer into the box. 'How come I didn't know about this message?'

'You tell me, Sherlock.'

I pull out a wad of paperwork and flick through some photographs. Holly has more freckles than I remember from last night. Perhaps being a ghost dilutes those kinds of things.

'She didn't give me much to go on,' I say. 'If you can track her down in the spirit world, you'd be doing me a favour.'

Max looks sceptical. 'Sounds to me like she's in Limbus if she said she was lost. I can't access the Limbus Dimension.'

I pause over my search. 'Limbus?' This is the first time I've come across that word.

'It's a dimension in between worlds,' Max explains walking around the desk and examining the new photos on the corkboard with his hands linked behind his back. 'Like being in limbo. Spirits with unfinished business or who have to undergo trials end up there until they're ready to move on.'

'Undergo trials? What, like court cases?'

Max waves me away. 'It's complicated. I've never heard of Limbus spirits being able to access other dimensions though.'

'What, are they put in some sort of solitary confinement?'

Max vehemently shakes his head and makes his way back, the burnt barn pictures apparently not doing much to hold his interest. 'No, nothing so severe. More like not having access to that internet thing you have or a telephone. It's meant to be a trial, you're not supposed to get help from other dimensions.'

I think about that for a moment. It doesn't sound so unfamiliar really. 'Kind of like our mortal world then?'

Max gives me a heavy-lidded look. 'Honestly, you have no idea how much intervention other dimensions have with the mortal world. You, of all people, should know that.'

'Yeah, yeah.'

I come across a different picture of Jonathan Kilpin about to enter a place called Crazy 8s Snooker Hall. In the first photo I thought his eyes were kind, but here, with the photo taken of him unawares, he looks shifty. Dad had obviously tailed him.

I toss it aside in favour of a folder labelled 'Sharp Shooters Portfolio'. Inside are dozens of photographs, not casual snaps or discreet surveillance, but artistic images. There is one of a bunch of cattle drinking at one of the Fens' many canals. Surrounding them is flat marshland, everything is organic except for a grotesque rusting water tower rising up above the horizon. It would be easy to dispose of a body in the Fens. Miles upon miles of impenetrable bog.

Another shows a group shot of about a dozen people, all different ages and gender. A banner in the background reads 'SHARP SHOOTERS CLUB'. I move the photo under the desk lamp for a better look. Holly is in the second row.

'Hello,' I murmur.

'Found something?' asks Max. He comes over to take a look.

'I don't know. It might be nothing.' I show him the picture and point at the boy next to Holly with his arm discreetly tucked around her waist. He is stocky in build with heavy shoulders and a thick neck, from which the tentacles of a tattoo reach up out of the collar of his t-shirt. The gesture looks innocent enough, but there is a certain affection in the way she leans into him, the way his fingers curve around her waist. 'But that definitely isn't Jonathan Kilpin.'

Max is about to respond when out of the corner of my eye I see the pile of casework sliding off balance. Too late, it knocks over the empty gin bottle. It hits the floor with a crash and breaks into a thousand pieces.

I cringe for a split second then dart a look at the door. I scoop the paper spillage back into the box and shove it back under the desk. I snap off the desk lamp and dive for cover behind the couch with the portfolio tucked under my arm just as Dad opens the door.

Heart beating in my throat, I look across at Max squashed beside me. What the hell is he hiding for? He's making me cold sitting so close. Then I notice Spock is still out in the open. I gesture furiously to him, but he ignores me.

Dad switches on the main light and stumbles into the room and stands over the broken gin bottle. 'What the hell?'

Spock walks out from behind the arm of the couch and wags his tail like a total kiss-ass. I cringe, waiting for Dad's to demand that I come out from my hiding place.

'What are you doing here, Spock?' Dad mumbles. 'Was this you? Why aren't you asleep with Noa?'

Spock whuffs, tail going like a windscreen wiper.

'No games, Spock. Not now.'

Spock looks over at the couch, one ear cocked, and, claws clicking, trots back in our direction. This is it. There'll be hell to pay. Spock is not having any treats for at least a month.

The next moment Max leaps up and charges Spock. Spock lets out an almighty squeal of fear. Tail whipping between his legs, he retreats behind Dad. I give Max a furious look but he just shrugs and settles back down beside me.

'He was going to give us away.'

I jerk my finger to my lips and Max gives me one of his heavy-lidded looks.

'Noa, darling, you must know by now that you are the only mortal who can hear me.'

I hold my breath as Dad looks around suspiciously.

'Are we alone, Spock?' he says.

Max looks uncertain for a moment. Dad pauses then gives a mirthless snort.

'Load of nonsense.'

He goes over to his desk and sits in his chair. I have to shift further along the back of the couch so he can't see me. I hear him sigh heavily. I hazard a peep around the corner of the couch. Dad is looking through the papers already scattered on his desk. I pull a face and resign myself to the fact I might be staying here a while.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	4. Friends and Enemies

**4 – FRIENDS AND ENEMIES**

* * *

The next day I'm lying on my stomach on my bed, a lot less cramped than last night's ordeal behind the couch. A strawberry pop-sucker is helping to cheer me up. Max sits opposite me on the floor, his back against the wall, a blue-black tone Star Trek above his head, keeping a wary eye on Spock who half-heartedly lifts a lip to growl at him.

Holly's Sharp Shooters portfolio is spread out before me. She isn't half bad as a photographer. There are photos of the fens, the River Ouse and the River Cam, photos of Germany, all of them are of landscapes or buildings. Only one has people posing in them – the intriguing Sharp Shooters Club photo.

'Who do you think he is?' asks Max.

I take a quick look through some other papers I managed to squander last night but none refer to anyone by his description. 'Dunno yet. Dad hasn't made a record of any of them. Could just be a friend.'

Max shifts across and gestures for the photo. I hold it up for him to examine and he shakes his head.

'No man puts his arm around a lady without preconceived motives.'

'Max, we're in the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. Friends can hold each other without having to propose first.'

Max looks affronted. 'I'm well aware of what century we're in, thank you, Noa. Your choice of wardrobe is a constant reminder. But do you see this boy with his arm around the young lady on his other side?'

I glare at him just a moment longer to make sure he knows I didn't miss his jab at my clothes then look at the photo again. He does have a point. 'We're just going to have to find out who he is then.'

Lollipop in place, I sit up and start packing up everything up. They've got into an awful mess very quickly. I knock the portfolio and papers together, but as I do so another photo falls out of the inside flap of the folder.

It shows Holly and another girl, brown hair in a ponytail, plain but with pretty features, posing in front of a food market. German writing on the stalls behind give away its location. It must have been summer time. Holly's freckles are rampant across her face and bare arms. She's wearing a cut off denim shorts, a navy t-shirt and a pendant necklace with some sort of metal symbol on it. I turn it over, hoping for more clues, but it's blank.

'Who's that?' Max asks.

'I don't know. It just fell out.' I take another flick through the jumbled paperwork. 'Dad hasn't recorded the photo. It must have been hidden.'

Max raises an eyebrow. 'Interesting.'

'Why so?'

'Well, apart from that group photograph, do you see any other photographs of people in here?'

I concede not. Holly's interests appear to lie in natural surroundings.

'And there must be at least a hundred pictures here,' says Max.

'Who is it though?' I frown at the picture again. She must be a friend from the Winslows' days in Germany.

'Family? Does she have a sister?' Max suggests.

I shake my head. 'She's an only child.'

'Must be tough on her folks to lose their only child.'

I pack away the last of the photos and get up to find my boots. 'Or careless.'

'That's not very sympathetic.'

I shrug. I know it's not, but there's just something that doesn't sit right with me about Mr and Mrs Winslow. 'I know, I'm sorry. I just don't get why her parents aren't raising the roof trying to find her.'

'Do you think they had something to do with her disappearance.'

I tug my boots' laces tight and give Max a stern look. 'Holly's dead. She's hasn't just disappeared. She's been murdered, Max.'

'So you think her parents killed their only child?'

I try to ignore the slightly disbelieving look in his eyes. 'Yeah, I know. Her dad gave me the creeps though.'

'Doesn't make him a murderer. Does he not have an alibi?'

'Yeah, he does.' I sigh. It would have made this case so much easier to solve if he didn't. 'He was in Germany.'

'No need to sound so disappointed. What about the mother?'

'God, no. She's hopeless.'

I sit back down on the bed and reach for a separate sheet of paper to reference. 'Dad's profiled them both. Maggie Winslow is on about a dozen different medications for depression, diabetes and leg and back pain. There's no way she could have killed a fit and healthy teenager.'

Max bobs his head from side to side in indecision. 'But if Holly was stoned and incapacitated…'

'Trust me,' I say, holding up my hand at him, 'you didn't see her in Dad's office. She was a complete wreck.'

I slap the paper back on the pile and get up again.

'So, what's our next move, detective?' Max asks.

I take a deep breath. I can already feel my pulse starting to race. 'To visit what appears to be Holly's one and only friend.'

* * *

There is the threat of rain hanging in the air as I secure my bicycle to a wrought iron railing outside a row of terraced houses. I walk up the steps to number 38 and knock on a door whose blue paint is peeling.

'Remember to smile,' says Max behind me.

I paste a smile on my face and wait. Finally it is opened and a boy of about ten looks up at me through the eyeholes of his Spiderman costume.

'Good grief, I thought your wardrobe was bad,' says Max.

'Hello, er, Spiderman,' I say. 'Is Eyra home?'

The boy giggles into his hand and runs back down a dim corridor and out of sight. From within I hear the voice of someone older, a girl, call out, 'Damien, who is it? God, you're a pain. I'll tell Mum when she gets home.'

From around the corner a girl about my age with straight blonde hair and pinched facial features appears carrying a television remote control.

'Hi, can I help you?'

'Are you Eyra?' I ask.

The girl eyes me curiously. 'Yes.'

My stomach gives a stupid flip as I realise I am really here investigating a case that I shouldn't be, talking to people who might very well blow my cover. I might very well be talking to the person responsible for Holly's death. 'I – er – my name is Noa, Noa Drury.' I hold out my hand and she takes it reluctantly. Her shake is equally weak. 'I'm working on Holly Winslow's disappearance.'

Eyra's hazel eyes narrow in suspicion. 'You're a bit young to be a police officer, aren't you?'

'I told you to dress older,' mutters Max.

'I work for a private investigation firm,' I say. 'A family business.'

Eyra sort of nods, sort of jerks her chin up. 'Oh, right. I thought the name rang a bell. That guy that visited me before, who was he, your dad?'

'Yeah.' I mentally cringe, and hope to God she doesn't go telling him I was here.

'Well, I told him everything I know. There's nothing much I can add to it.'

For a moment I'm tempted to just accept that and leave, but then I remember Holly's spirit. _Help me, I don't know where I am_. I clear my throat and square my shoulders.

'I appreciate that. There's just one thing that's come to light since then. Could I come in?'

Eyra looks even more unenthused and gestures with the television remote. 'If you're quick. I'm in the middle of something.'

'Good lord,' says Max as we step over the dirty threshold into the corridor. 'If this was Holly's only friend, she was probably better off with none.'

'Shut up.'

'What?' says Erya and I realise my mistake.

'Er – um – sorry. Tourette's, you know how it is.'

Eyra gives me a look like my sanity is neglible. 'Er, right, okay. Come through.'

* * *

I'm shown into the lounge, a small box like room with a bricked up fireplace and tired furniture resting against grubby walls that were once cream. I perch on a couch opposite Eyra. It stinks of dog and the smell of that mixing with Eyra's heavy perfume is turning my stomach.

The television is frozen on Tom Hardy dressed as Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights. Max steps closer to get a better look.

'My, that is a fine pair of boots he's wearing. And that cravat! The cape, admittedly, is a bit dandyish, but otherwise –'

'So!' I cry, slapping my palms on my thighs and beaming at Eyra. 'Remind me how you know Holly again?'

Max takes the hint and comes over to sit on the armrest.

'From school,' Eyra replies. 'I didn't know her all that well though. I mean she wasn't exactly the most sociable. She was more interested in her photography club than any of us.'

'But you spoke, right, like friends do?'

Eyra shrugs. 'I guess. We hung out.'

By the unenthusiastic tone of her voice I can't help but ask, 'Why did you hang out with her?'

Eyra looks at me in surprise. 'What?'

'I mean if she was anti-social, why did she hang out with you?'

Eyra shrugs again and looks at Tom Hardy's frozen image, a far off look in her eyes. 'Why does anyone hang out with anyone?' She turns her gaze back to me and this time her eyes have hardened. 'We just did, okay?'

'So, you know Jonathan then?'

Eyra rolls her eyes. 'God, your father wouldn't leave the subject alone either. Don't you guys compare notes?'

'Humour me,' I say.

'Jonathan was Holly's boyfriend, not mine. He's such a loser anyway. They deserved each other.' She falls back into her armchair and crosses her arms with an impatient sigh.

'You're saying Holly's a loser too, then?'

Eyra glares at me. 'No! I mean they were both outcasts. I don't know, maybe they had things in common.'

Max leans in, sending a chill up my side. 'Ask her about the drugs.'

I ignore him, instead taking a photo out of my bag and handing it to Eyra. It is of Holly and the unknown girl at a German market. 'Do you know who this is?'

Eyra reaches forward to take the photo. Her shirt slips off her shoulder and in the split second before she pulls it up again, I spot a yellowing bruise on her shoulder.

'Yeah, of course,' she says. 'It's Emilie.'

She says it with such nonchalance that for a moment I'm left flat-footed. 'Emilie?'

'Her friend from Germany. They were very close.'

I take the photo back and glance at Emilie's image. I don't recall seeing any notes on Emilie, but Dad must surely have investigated her. 'Do you think Holly might have run away back to Germany? Maybe she's staying with Emilie?'

'I thought you said Holly was dead?' says Max beside me. I frown and want to tell him to pipe down, I know what I'm doing. If Eyra's clear of any blame then she doesn't know Holly is dead. For all we know she might very well have run away back to Germany and been killed there.

Eyra shakes her head at my suggestions, even laughs. 'No chance. Emilie died like two or three years ago.'

Well, there goes that theory. 'Oh,' I say, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. 'How did she die?'

'She would never tell me,' replies Eyra. 'And, you know, it's not the sort of thing you like to ask.' There's a spiteful look in Eyra's eye and take the subtle dig on the chin.

'Of course.'

Eyra glances at the television again. 'Is that all?'

'Ask her about the drugs,' Max says again.

'Where were you the night Holly disappeared?' I ask.

'I was here at home. In my room most of the evening, chatting on my laptop.'

I return her challenging stare with one of my own most practiced version. 'Can anyone vouch for that?'

Eyra rolls her eyes and sighs. 'I don't know. My parents, I guess. They were downstairs. Now, seriously, I've told all this to your dad. If you haven't got anything new to ask, could you leave me alone? I've things to do.'

'Noa,' Max says through gritted teeth. 'Ask her about –'

'I think that about covers it. Thanks for clearing things up for me – us, I mean, my dad and me.'

Eyra gets up, her body language yelling 'Finally!' and she gestures me back through into the corridor.

'What are you doing?' says Max. 'Why didn't you ask her about the drugs? Ask her!'

Eyra holds the front door open and feigns politeness. 'Well, bye. I hope you find her.'

She looks doubtful though and I pause. With a quick glance around I lower my voice. 'Hey, you know I didn't want to say anything earlier in case someone overheard, but I was wondering if maybe you could fix me up with a teenth?'

Eyra's eyes widen. 'What?

'You know, some nose candy?' I wink at her, feeling totally sleezy. 'Been a while since I last went skiing.'

Eyra looks disgusted. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

Getting into the role, I clear my throat and lean in. 'Look, I get it, but you're cool with me. I was just hoping that you might point me in the direction of some snow? All things considered, like.'

Eyra curls her lip at me and gives me a look like I've just crawled out of a sewer. 'You're asking me for _drugs_? Are you insane? Get out!'

'Sorry, I just figured what with you being friends with Holly and Jonathan –'

'Jonathan wouldn't – that's crap!' Eyra spits then a sneer sours her face. 'Holly, maybe. Whoever told you that about Jonathan is lying.'

With a push, I find myself on the front step and the door slams behind me. I brush myself down – I actually feel like I need a shower after sitting on that revolting couch – and exchange mischievous smiles with Max.

'Do you believe her?' he asks as I try to extract my bicycle from the clutches of the railings.

'Hard not to,' I reply. I mightn't have liked Eyra very much but she was certainly convincing.

The first spots of rain speckle the grey pavement slabs as we walk away from the house. Max nods in agreement.

'But she's head over heels in love with Jonathan though, don't you think?'

I grin, pleased that we both picked up on it. 'Yup. One hundred percent.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	5. Junkie Bonds

**5 – JUNKIE BONDS**

* * *

It's late afternoon by the time I knee open the front door and wheel my bicycle into the house. I prop it up in its alcove under the stairs and hang my rain splashed helmet up on the coat stand.

Spock rushes in to greet me, tail wagging his entire body, claws scratching at the floorboards. He acts like I've been gone a year.

'Hello, gorgeous,' I say, leaning down to ruffle his ears and scratch his neck.

Spock covers me in kisses and nearly knocks me over.

There's a bump from the adjoining study and I pause from my laughter. 'Dad, you home?'

I hear Dad clear his throat. 'Yes. Noa, is that you?'

'Do you have any other daughters?' I straighten up and walk over to the study doorway. Dad is hurriedly closing a drawer to his desk and rubbing his face to clear it of its creases. He looks at me with bloodshot eyes he cannot hide.

'Where've you been?' He tries to disguise his slurred speech, but we've been here too often. I know he's just hidden his gin.

'Do you want some tea?' I ask.

Dad looks flustered, and nods. 'Yes, I think that would be lovely. Coffee though, if you're making. I'd prefer coffee, strong coffee.'

In the kitchen I prepare a tea cup and coffee cup while the kettle boils. I don't know what has sparked this recent lapse in Dad's behaviour. He's not an alcoholic, of course. I know that. Dad has a job, he keeps himself clean and shaven, he's _responsible_. He can't have a drink problem. But there has to be a reason for his reliance on gin lately. I blame Mr and Mrs Winslow. Dad shouldn't have had to take on such a case when they weren't going to let him investigate it properly. And now he blames himself for not bringing Holly home.

I dip into the cookie jar, and chew thoughtfully. I have a responsibility to help Dad. Spock whines at my feet and I absent-mindedly give him a cookie too.

* * *

I put Dad's steaming coffee on his desk and drop a couple of headache tablets beside it. Dad gives me a grateful, almost sheepish, smile.

'Thanks, Noa. What would I do without you?'

I don't answer. I have spotted Holly Winslow's box pulled out from under the desk. I talk a gulp of my tea and scald my throat. Holly's photography portfolio and about half a ream of Dad's notes are still in my bedroom. Trying to distract both our attentions from the box and the missing documents, I point at a photo on Dad's desk. It is of a tiny cupboard-like bedroom with a sloping ceiling.

'What's that?'

'Came in an email from Henry Winslow. It's from Holly's bedroom. Apparently they were burgled yesterday. He wants me to reopen the case.'

I inwardly cringe. I don't particularly want to prompt questions about the missing folder and notes. I perch on the corner of his desk and sip my tea, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. 'Sounds like they've got it tough. But that doesn't excuse emotional blackmail.'

Dad shakes his head. 'I should never have taken on the case in the first place. You know me, I'm much happier with things like this Ackerman case.' He gestures to the photos on his corkboard of the farm arson-insurance fraud case.

I glance at the photos of Farmer Ackerman, a tired man in his fifties, no immediate family, no wife or children. Another social reject.

Dad heaves a great sigh and looks at me in despair. 'How am I meant to tell them Holly is dead?' His gaze flitters to the drawer he'd been fiddling with earlier. At a guess I'd say that's where his old friend, the gin bottle, is stashed.

'I might be wrong. There's no hard science behind these visits, so who's to say this isn't just a glitch?' I avert my eyes from the helpless look on Dad's face, drawn back to the photo of Holly's bedroom. I pick it up to take a closer look.

'Have you ever been wrong before?' Dad asks.

I shrug. 'Well, no, but I've never had a spirit visit me like this before. She was different, like she was further away.'

'Further away?' Dad prompts.

'Yeah, like not as immediate as they usually are. Like the transmission was faulty.'

'Do you think she could still be alive then?'

I squirm. I doubt very much whether a spirit could visit – regardless of their 'immediacy' – unless they were dead. 'I don't know. It might have just been because it was raining. Max is as puzzled as us. Usually, he knows who's going to visit before they come. I don't know how it works on that side of the flatline, but generally I have to tell him if the message has been delivered so he can pass it on.'

Dad frowns at me in puzzlement. 'And he didn't know Holly was going to visit you?'

I shake my head. 'No. Weird, huh? So, maybe, it's all a mistake.' I smile at him. 'Maybe I'm just mad and I'm conjuring them up now by myself.' I give him a goofy lunatic look to make him laugh and he rewards me with a small smile. But it's short-lived. He looks down at his hands. There's an ever so subtle tremble to his long dark fingers. I look down at Holly's photo again. It's messy, not like normal messy, but _really_ messy. Is that from the burglary or was Holly just a particularly untidy teenager, I wonder?

'Henry Winslow's trying to prove to me that she's run away,' says Dad. 'He says all her make-up and hair products have gone.'

I take a closer look at the image. There are the usual posters on the wall, a collection of porcelain rabbits on the dresser, but it is bare of other usual accessories.

'During the burglary or before?'

Dad shrugs. 'Before I think.'

I refrain from saying it would be easy enough to get rid of those things to imply a runaway had occurred. It would be equally easy to imply a burglary had taken place too. I'm about to toss it aside when my eye is caught by a framed picture sitting on the bedside table. It is too small to make out properly but I don't need a magnifying glass to recognise it. It's the same photo of Holly and Emilie that was hidden in the portfolio.

I can't help my curiosity. How much of a coincidence would it be if both friends died within a couple of years of one another? Surely, it was worth looking into?

'Who's that?' I ask, feigning ignorance.

Dad takes the photo and looks closely. 'Holly and an old friend from Germany, I believe.' He looks at me and shakes his head. 'I know what you're thinking, but she couldn't have gone back to her. That friend OD'd a couple of years back.'

'OD'd?' I say in surprise. 'As in suicide?'

Dad shakes his head, his brow furrowing. 'No, no, nothing so selfish.' He pauses for a moment, his eyes flitting to the framed photo of my mother he always has on his desk. 'It was accidental. Heroin. Sad, isn't it, that drugs are responsible for so much pain and suffering?'

I seriously doubt, if her best friend died from an overdose, that Holly was ever into drugs. It just wouldn't make sense. Why get involved in the very thing that killed your best friend? I think of Mr Winslow, how insistent he was that Holly was into drugs. Was he lying or did he seriously believe what he said? I suppose Holly hanging around with Jonathan wouldn't have helped. And parents do just assume things sometimes.

Dad's trembling hands become more noticeable and he hides them in his lap. I can see he's itching to get at the gin bottle in his drawer. I try to mask my disappointment. Frustration too. Why can't he see there is no difference between drugs and alcohol? They are both used for the same purpose – to relieve the same pain and suffering he said they caused.

I gesture to his paperwork with my mug and slip off the desk corner. 'You've probably got work to catch up on.'

Dad looks relieved.

I leave him to it with Spock at my heels and close the study door behind me. I can already hear the scratching of tin against glass as he unscrews the top off the gin bottle.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	6. Stakeout

**6 – STAKEOUT**

* * *

Cambridge feels full of the joys of the season as I wheel my bicycle along the footpath passing through the middle of Midsummer Common. Max strolls along beside me, thumbs hooked into his breeches, face turned up to the heat of the sun. Birds twitter in the stout beech trees and oak trees scattered around the park, and people are stretched out on the grass to read their books and enjoy the sunshine.

To make me appear less weird I have my hands-free ear piece and microphone on display to disguise whom I was chatting to. Spock trots purposefully ahead on his extender leash, and tries to join in a cuddle two young lovers are enjoying off the path. I yank him back and apologise.

'Love can be so complex, can't it?' muses Max.

I raise a curious eyebrow at him. It's not like Max to volunteer such deep sentiments.

'Take Eyra for example,' he says, catching my look. I doubt she ever meant to fall in love with her friend's boyfriend.'

'Or did she?' I counter.

It's Max's turn to raise an eyebrow. 'What do you mean?'

'Might Eyra have befriended Holly for the sole reason of getting closer to Jonathan? Maybe steal him off her? How far might she have gone to get him?'

Max looks at me in surprise. 'Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?'

I shrug. I was a lot more confident about the theory when it was still just an idea in my head. 'I don't know. I'm just putting it out there. Did you see the bruise on her shoulder?'

'I must confess it escaped my notice.'

I grin at him. 'Yeah, you were too busy checking out Tom Hardy on the TV. It was an old bruise; maybe a couple of weeks old.'

Max nods thoughtfully and strokes his chin. 'An interesting observation.'

We've nearly reached the end of the common where it meets the main road and the residential streets begin. I look around and spot a beech tree not far away that hasn't been appropriated by lunching Cambridge city workers and university students.

'Come on.'

The shade isn't much relief from the fierce sunshine and I prop my bicycle up against the trunk and sit down to cool off.

'Phew,' I say, fanning my cheeks. 'Come sit next to me. I'm seriously overheating here.'

Max obliges, even puts an arm around me. I don't feel him as such, just a silken coolness like diving deep in a swimming pool where the rays of the sun haven't yet penetrated. I glance across at the couple still laughing and cuddling in the grass a little way off and am suddenly overcome by a pang of longing. Sometimes I really wish Max was real. I mean, I know he's _real_ , but I wish he was alive, living the same time as me so that… So that what? A wave of discomfort washes over me as I leave the question hanging in my mind. Having Max so intimately close rouses all those old feelings I thought I'd squashed dead.

'Thanks, I'm fine now.'

Max lingers for a moment, his blue eyes searching mine, searching for the hidden meaning behind my abrupt dismissal, then gets to his feet and moves a couple of paces away. I sigh. I don't want to upset Max.

We watch as Spock wanders a short way away, sniffing in zig zags then squats to pee.

Max shakes his head and reaches up to swing from a branch. 'That dog has no pride.'

I ignore him. My attention has moved back to the whole purpose of today's excursion – to find Holly Winslow's body. 'I suppose Eyra's bruise could have been from any numbers of causes. One thing's for sure though – you know she said that Holly "maybe" was involved in drugs?'

'Yes?'

'Total crap. The girl in the picture, Emilie, died of a heroin overdose. Holly had the same picture that we found in her portfolio framed in her bedroom. If your best friend in the whole world died from drug abuse, would you start taking them?'

Max pulls a reluctant face. 'Unlikely. I had a friend who would frequent an opium bar in London, walked into the street one day after one such visit and got run down by a carriage. No drug is worth your life.' Max shakes his head in remembrance. 'So, why did Holly parents claim she was into drugs?'

'Well, here's the thing. Holly's a bit of a loner, independent – has to be, really, she's moved schools so often, living in foreign-speaking countries and all that – so she gets on with things by herself, likes to do things her way. Her parents are a little overbearing – a strict father, a clingy mother, probably both trying to manipulate her emotionally. They've already tried it on with Dad. What does she do?' I look at Max and he shrugs. 'She rebels. She won't touch drugs, but she does the next best thing – she gets involved with a boy who is, or if Eyra is to be believed, _appears_ to be. Parents automatically disapprove. Holly runs away, who is the first person she runs to?'

Max lets go of the low-hanging branch, making the tree shake. 'Jonathan?'

I point at him in triumph. 'Precisely!'

Max jumps up again and tries to swing from the branch. He gives me a lazy smile. 'Okay, Detective Inspector, where do you go from there?'

'Well –' I rustle through my rucksack but pause when a couple of beech nuts plop down on me. 'Max, please stop doing that. People get freaked out if something is moving for no reason.'

'Tell them it's a squirrel.'

'Yeah, a hundred and fifty pound squirrel. Like that's not going to freak them out.'

I take out a pair of binoculars and a bird book. Max eyes me suspiciously as he dusts off his hands.

'What are we doing here exactly?'

'We're on a stakeout.' I glance around to make sure nobody is watching then focus the binoculars on the row of Victorian terraced houses opposite the main road.

'We're surveilling birds?' Max asks sceptically.

'No, silly, that's just in case anybody gets suspicious and asks.'

'So who exactly are we staking out?'

'Jonathan, of course.'

Max leaves the tree alone and steps over to confront me. 'Are you insane?'

I lower the binos to look at him. 'How do you think we're going to solve this case without finding out what our primary suspect gets up to?'

'But Holly's dead, Noa,' says Max, flapping his arms. 'Jonathan's our primary suspect for _murder_.'

I try to appear like that's nothing to be scared of. What's so scary about tailing a murderer, anyhow? I put the binos down in my lap for a moment as my hands tremble at the thought. 'Yes, she is dead,' I say, forcing myself to sound offhand. 'And that's exactly why I have to find out what happened to her. That's why she visited me the other night.' I pause to gauge Max's response. He still doesn't appear particularly happy about my plan. 'If we can find her body, find out what happened to her, then I think her spirit will be able to rest. She won't be lost anymore.'

Max drags a hand through his thick dark curls and turns away. He whirls back to face me and throws his hands out in despair. 'And what am I supposed to while he slices and dices you? There's nothing I can do to intervene, you know that, don't you?'

I shrug. I don't want to think about being sliced and diced. 'I'm not going to get in that close.'

* * *

By late afternoon, my eyelids are getting heavier by the minute. Spock and Max are both flat out on the ground and I finished the last of my water an hour ago. No wonder police always eat doughnuts and coffee on stakeouts; they need the sugar and caffeine boost to keep them awake. Actually doughnuts aren't such a bad idea. I consider for a second leaving Max where he is and finding a patisserie. I've been watching Max's house the whole afternoon without so much as a Jehovah's Witness to knock on the door and interrupt the monotony of the closed white door.

Suddenly said door opens and my brain clicks out of neutral and goes into hyperdrive.

'Max!'

Max doesn't respond. Spock wakes up, yawns and stretches, tail a-thumping on the grass.

'Max! Wake up!'

I give him a quick frown. Actually, I'd never realised spirits slept.

'Hmm?' Max opens an eyelid and half raises his head.

I stuff by bird book, binos and empty water bottle back in my rucksack. 'Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. The target is on the move.'

* * *

The air is much cooler on the street as the tall houses cast a shadow over the road. My bicycle wheel squeaks the faster I walk. I wish I'd taken the time to find some oil before coming out. Jonathan's a fair way ahead, walking along the pavement between the houses and parked cars, curving round to the right, hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather jacket, the black spikes on his head giving off an oily shine. I could do with some of what he puts in his hair to quieten my wheel.

We pass Jonathan's house and I glance up at the double-storey terraced building. It's ordinary, maybe the windows and walls could do with a clean, but there is nothing to suggest a murderer lives here.

'Don't get too close,' says Max, hurrying beside me. 'He'll notice you.'

I exhale, trying to calm my nerves. My heart is thumping like a ravers' club and my hands are slippery on the handlebars of my bicycle. I watch Jonathan walk fast around the curve of the street, just his head and shoulders visible above the car roofs.

'He won't. Not unless he looks around.'

In that moment Jonathan glances right and at the angled shop window of a DIY store. I can see him in the reflection, which can only mean _he_ can see _me_.

Max and I duck as one. Behind the cover of a parked car I fiddle with Spock's collar. Spock looks thrilled with such unexpected attention and slurps kisses over my face.

'All right, Spock, thank you,' I say, trying to stave him off without appearing ungrateful.

Max is first to climb to his feet. I look up at him while still pretending to fiddle with Spock's collar.

'Okay?' I ask.

Max nods. 'Okay.'

On my feet again, I realise that actually we're not okay at all. Jonathan is nowhere to be seen. We hurry to the end of the street and pause against the soot-blackened brickwork of the corner shop. What if he's right there on the other side, standing outside the shop, reading notices on the window? Heart in mouth, I edge forward and peep around the corner. My heart slides back down into my chest. There is no sign of Jonathan. He has disappeared.

'Where's he gone?' I ask, looking both ways up the adjoining street. I consider going into the shop – he may have only popped out for some tobacco or something – when Max points down a discreet side street.

'There!'

I just catch the back of Jonathan's black jacket and boots before he disappears out of sight again.

'I'll go on ahead so we don't lose him again,' says Max. 'Don't get too close.'

He jogs on ahead and I stay where I am for the moment. Back flat against the wall I try to get a hold of my breathing. Some detective I'd be if I have a panic attack every time I have to tail someone. I count to ten then, with a deep breath, step out of the shadow and into the sunshine.

Over at the side street, I see Max by a dumpster motioning furiously for me to catch up. I quicken my step. The side street stinks like a landfill site, the overflowing rubbish bins warmed from the summer sun and buzzing with flies.

'Where's he gone?'

'Down there,' says Max gesturing left at the end of the side street. 'Come on.'

Max goes ahead again and waits at the end of the road. His motioning gestures become more animated. Unable to take the stench of rotten rubbish for much longer, I gather Spock in my arms and dump him in the basket of my bicycle and climb aboard. I wobble down in and out of the potholes until I get to Max's vantage point. He puts a finger to his lips and points.

I dismount and peek around the corner.

Jonathan is walking across to the Crazy 8s Snooker Hall, almost bumping into a woman walking her Labradoodle. Spock barks once and leaps from the basket.

'Spock!' I make a grab for his leash but my bicycle is in the way and my hands are too full of handlebars to stop him.

Looking like he hasn't a care in the world, Spock trots into the open, tail and one ear up, intent on making friends with the Labradoodle. The woman clutches her lead to her chest like there's going to be an almighty dog fight.

'Get away!' she cries.

Jonathan turns to see who she referring to. He squats down and pats his knee.

'Come here, boy. There's a good boy.'

Spock, leash trailing, obligingly goes to him, wagging his tail so much his body gyrates. Jonathan stands up and squints in the sunshine. I'm not quick enough to hide.

'This your dog?' he calls out.

Max deflates against the grimy wall. 'Oh, God. Now we've done it. Tell him no, let's go.'

'I can't just leave him,' I say through gritted teeth.

'I'll get you a puppy for Christmas, how's that?'

Taking a big breath of courage, I step forward and pin a smile on my face. My knees are wobbling and I have the insane urge to smooth my top and check my hair.

'Thanks for catching him,' I force myself to speak. 'Spock, you are a naughty dog.' It's so much easier to talk to Spock than to Jonathan.

Jonathan raises an amused and heavily-metalled eyebrow. 'Spock? You a Trekker?'

I can feel a blush making my cheeks hotter than they are already. 'Maybe. I guess.'

He smiles – he really isn't as scary behind the armour – and gives the leash back. 'Well, there you go.'

I grab the leash. Was that too hasty? Did he notice how my hand shook? I hold my breath and return his smile, albeit less relaxed. 'Thanks.'

* * *

Walking home with the sunset casting us in a warm apricot glow, Max is far from happy.

'Well, that's done it. He's seen your face now. You can't tail him anymore.'

'I know,' I say with a shrug. 'Blame Spock, not me. In a way though, it was good that I met him.'

Max stares at me like I'm mad. 'Pray, do tell me why.'

Actually I'm quite surprised by what I'm thinking too. 'Well, appearances can be deceiving,' I say. 'And he's really not as scary as he looks.'

Max's eyes widen so much his crows' feet all but disappear.

Just to see his reaction, I add, 'And he has very gentle eyes, a nice smile, a nice voice.'

Max glowers and tries to kick a stone. His boot goes straight through and the stone barely rocks on its axis. 'Murderers generally don't have the word 'MURDERER' tattooed across their forehead,' he grumbles. 'They're very good at lulling their victims into a false sense of security.'

'I know, but…' I sigh. Seriously, I can't believe that I'm defending Jonathan. Was it because he was kind to Spock, or because he didn't mishear Spock's name, recognised I was a Star Trek fan?

'You spoke to him for all of thirty seconds,' fumes Max.

'Then I need to speak to him again.'

Max stops in his tracks to look at me. I carry on. I don't particularly want to have a showdown with an invisible man in the middle of the street.

'Noa, I _really_ don't like that idea,' he says, hurrying to catch up. 'And I _really_ don't like Jonathan Kilpin.'

'What if he's innocent though?' Goodness knows enough people have misjudged me by the way I look. Why should I be one of them and judge Jonathan just because he dresses a little differently? 'What if he can help us find Holly?'

'Then I think somebody else should investigate. It shouldn't be you.'

I look at Max curiously. I don't think I've ever seen him so protective over me. 'Dad's tried,' I reply. 'He wasn't able to get anything out of him. I have to try a different tactic.'

Max shakes his head and his mouth disappears in a disapproving line. 'That's what I was afraid of.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	7. Flirting With Danger

**7 – FLIRTING WITH DANGER**

* * *

'Hold out your arm, please,' says the girl in a bored voice from Crazy 8s ticket booth. The entrance lobby to the snooker hall is dark and cramped, and her pixie-styled peroxided hair glows. Already I can feel myself wanting to leave the claustrophobic stuffiness of the place.

I hold out my arm, wrist turned up, and she stamps it with little sensitivity or regard for the stamp's placement. It is a smudged green-ink image of two cue sticks crossed over a solid ball with the number 8 carved into it. Already the ink is bleeding into the 8 design.

Inside, the snooker hall hums with the sound of a hundred conversations, pop music plays weakly in the background, and shadowy figures hang out by the two dozen or so snooker and pool tables that fill the L-shaped room. Makes sense. It is Friday night after all. Lamps are hung low, making the green baize on the tables glow like oases in a darkened desert, but the people around them take on an eerie quality as their faces remain in shadow.

To the left is a bar propped up by middle-aged men watching the football on a widescreen television and flirtatious girls dressed scantily to get their drinks paid for them.

Beside me, Max crosses his arms and wrinkles his nose in disgust. 'And people pay to come in here? I've seen opium bars with more class.'

'Stop it, Max. You're sounding more and more like a parent every day,' I say out of the corner of my mouth.

I think of Dad, sitting at home, probably also watching the footie, already on his fourth or fifth drink. How he hadn't shown much interest in where I was going on a Friday night. Granted, he had asked, and I had lied, but it had been a very poor lie and for a private investigator the least he could have done was look a bit further into it.

I spot my target and, feeling conspicuous, move down the aisle alongside the rows of pool tables and find a stool in a shadowy corner where I won't draw attention to myself. For once, I don't have Spock with me so hopefully my cover won't get blown.

From my stool, I can watch Jonathan and a few friends – two girls and a guy – at a nearby table. They're not loud and don't appear to laugh much. Their conversation is casual and understated, their attention focussed on the game.

'He was quick in finding a new girlfriend,' says Max in my ear.

I strain to hear their conversation but the ambient murmur of pool and snooker enthusiasts enjoying their Friday night make it impossible. 'I can't hear what they're saying.'

Max steps back to avoid someone walking into him and instead reverses into someone else who shivers and looks around, rubbing his bare tattooed arms. Max gives me an uneasy look. 'Noa, I really don't think this is our crowd, do you?'

I grin at him. 'Not exactly a ball at the Darcys', you mean?'

'If you are referring to Jane Austen's novel, then I'll have you know that was almost a century before my era. It's like me saying you socialise like Jay Gatsby.'

I snort, trying not to laugh too loud. People would think I'm weird. Or weird _er_.

We watch the game. Jonathan is a mean pool player and pots ball after ball with unflinching accuracy. As he leans over the table, his spikes glow in the lamp light and his piercings glitter.

He pots the black ball with a sharp crack of the pool cue and stands up straight and triumphant, his attention now relaxed. His eyes stray around the room, and I hold my breath. Our eyes meet, and a frown drifts across his face before it floods with recognition.

'Crap,' I mutter through clenched teeth. 'I seriously have to work on my tailing skills.'

With nothing left to lose, I hop off my stool. My legs have taken on a jellified consistency making the crossing to Jonathan feel like a tight rope walk.

'Wait!' exclaims Max. 'Where are you going?'

It's too late for me to respond. Jonathan is watching me. I smile at him as I get closer, try to appear shy and timid. I don't have to try too hard on this occasion.

Jonathan balances his folded arms on his pool cue and grins. 'Look who it is. Our local Trekker.'

'I thought it was you,' I reply.

Jonathan scans the ground around my feet and raises a metal eyebrow. 'No dog today?'

I shake my head. 'He's more into bowling than pool.'

Jonathan laughs, attracting the attention of the rest of his group.

The other boy gestures to me with the triangle as he resets the table. 'Who's this?'

He wears a dark t-shirt with its sleeves ripped off to best display his muscular arms and tattoos that reach from his forearms down to his hands. All I can make out are the screaming skulls and bloodshot eyeballs inked into his skin. The shadows cast by the low-hung lamp make him appear even more intimidating.

Jonathan looks at me, his expression questioning.

'N-Noa,' I stumble out. 'My name's Noa.' On second thoughts, should I have given a fake name?

Too late, Jonathan passes his pool cue into his other hand and holds out his right to shake mine. His gaze is curious, almost flirtatious. 'Hello, Noa. I'm Jonathan. That's Taff, Hails and Angie.'

'Hi,' I squeak. I raise a hand in greeting but drop it quickly when it shakes uncontrollably.

'So, what brings you here? You meeting someone?' asks Jonathan.

I grab hold of the excuse he's offered me, and nod. 'Yes! That's it. Um, my friend – er – Max –'

'What?' says Max, alert as a meerkat.

'He was – I mean, we were meant to, you know, meet up, shoot some pool.' I make a poor imitation of hitting a ball with an air cue stick and feel even more stupid than before. 'Kind of like that, yeah…' I drift off.

Max looks haughtily on, arms crossed over his baggy gypsy shirt. 'I wouldn't have the first idea how to play. This wasn't around in my time.'

I try to ignore him, this is difficult enough, too difficult in fact. I look at my watch. 'I guess he's not coming.'

'Are you local?' asks Jonathan, delaying my escape.

My mind switches from awkward teenager to PI in a nanosecond as I'm presented with yet another opportunity to fish for details about my prime suspect. 'I am now.' Thankfully, my voice has returned to its normal pitch. 'I only moved here recently,' I lie. 'Everything's still a bit new to me.'

'Where are you from?'

'London. Are _you_ local?'

Jonathan exchanges amused smiles with his friends. 'More or less.'

'Gosh, you're lucky. Cambridge is so easy to get lost in.' This time I'm not lying. I've also been living here all my life and I _still_ get lost.

Jonathan shrugs. 'Do you want a game while you wait for your friend? Max, was it?'

'I'm right here, thank you very much,' said Max, glaring at the competition. 'And it's no wonder you don't see me here. I wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.'

'You are dead,' I say, through the pretence of a cough.

'What?' says Jonathan, giving me a strange look.

'Um, you're dead meat, I meant. I'm a bad ass pool player. You sure you want to take me on?'

Jonathan grins. 'I like your confidence.'

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. What am I getting myself into? 'Well, if you're sure. Thanks.' I wring my hands awkwardly and look at the other members of the group. 'If you're sure I'm not jumping the queue?'

The girls, Hails and Angie, have lost interest and are chatting between themselves and Taff just shrugs and hands me his pool cue.

'I'm off to get us some more drinks,' he says.

'You want to break?' offers Jonathan.

I shake my head. I don't know that I'll even hit the white ball successfully, never mind break up the rest of the balls. 'You go ahead.'

Jonathan moves to the top of the table and forms a bridge with his fingers like a tarantula sitting on the green baize. For the first time, I notice pink marks on his hands, consistent with burn injuries, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his jacket. He strikes the white ball and scatters the rest. A striped ball bumps down a side pocket.

'You're solid,' he says.

'Thanks, nice of you to say so,' I reply, deliberately misunderstanding him.

Jonathan laughs. He takes his second shot and the ball bounces off the cushion. He then steps back and gestures for me to take my first shot.

I take a deep breath and step forward. With difficulty I line up a shot. My hands are still trembling. Okay, accepting a game probably wasn't such a good plan, telling him I was a bad ass pool player an even worse idea, but I was nervous and how else was I going to talk to him?

I shoot. And miss. Badly.

'Oh God,' says Max, burying his face in his hands. 'Have you ever played before?'

'I'm a little out of practice.'

Jonathan just smiles, takes another shot, sinks the next two balls. 'So, what brings you to Cambridge, Noa?'

He lines up his third shot, pauses, alters the trajectory. The ball bounces off the cushion, missing the pocket, but still leaves me with a tricky shot ahead.

'My dad's work. He's a pri–' I'm focussing on the game so much that I almost blow my cover. 'A private equity investor.'

Jonathan looks impressed. 'Really? Sounds a very high end job. The sort that you don't even know what they mean, let alone how to do them. What exactly is a private equity investor?'

I inwardly cringe. 'Um… invests people's money?' I take a wild guess, then spot another opportunity for Jonathan to warm to me (if my theory of Holly's personality is correct, of course). 'I don't know,' I say with an insolent shrug. 'It all kinda bores me anyway.'

Jonathan laughs.

Confidence reasserted, I line up my next shot to close that particular subject. Max moves to the other side of the table, leaning down to examine shot options. He puts his finger on the cushion. 'I've been watching the others. It's really not as complicated as it seems. Just aim for my finger.'

I do as I'm told. The cue ball bounces off the cushion right where Max has his forefinger pressed, knocks into a solid ball which tumbles into the top right pocket. Max beams at me and gives a mini fist pump.

'I did it!' I can't help but cry.

Jonathan smiles. 'Good shot. Your go again.'

My world glows. 'Thank you.'

I line up another shot with Max's help. Playing pool really isn't helping me think up questions that might help deduce Jonathan's guilt. Contrary to Max's earlier claim, we still end up missing the next pot. He waggles his finger at me.

'My finger, Noa. Aim for my finger, not his beer.'

'So, what brings the daughter of a _private equity investor_ to a pool hall?'

By the way Jonathan says it, I get the impression he's teasing me, having fun. It must mean he's relaxed. His guard is down. I just have to keep it that way.

I shrug, trying to channel how I imagine Holly might have acted. 'He's not the boss of me.'

Jonathan grins. 'I like that.'

Is he seriously flirting with me? Not even two weeks after he's potentially murdered his girlfriend? 'Um, what else is there to do in Cambridge?'

'Plenty. You just got to know where to look.'

He pots another ball and is well on his way to winning the game. I bite my lip. The game is going to be over soon and I've made absolutely no progress with him.

'What do you do, Jonathan? Do you work? Go to college?'

Jonathan snorts and shakes his head. 'I work at a stone mason's; as an apprentice. When did you move to Cambridge?'

My brain clicks into overdrive as I search for an answer that will progress this 'interview'. 'Nearly three weeks ago. That Monday we had the massive thunderstorm? Not the best day to be moving furniture.' It was also the day Holly went missing.

'Ah, yes,' says Jonathan with a nod. 'I remember that. I was helping a friend to move that day too, strangely enough.'

My ears prick up. Was 'moving a friend' a euphemism for killing them perhaps?

'Where were they going?'

'Not far.' He gives me a smile that sends chills down my spine. The twinkle in his eyes, the thin curve of his mouth, I can see he's playing with me. 'Your shot.'

I snap back to the game. My hands are trembling again, so much so I completely miss-hit the cue ball.

'What was that?' demands Max from the sidelines. 'Come now, Noa, don't let me down here. Concentrate. Remember my finger.'

'I'll show you the finger in a minute,' I mutter as I step back to make way for Jonathan.

'What?' he says, looking at me in surprise.

I bat my hand at him. 'Sorry, just talking to myself. I'm playing like such a girl.'

Jonathan looks mildly unimpressed with my excuse. 'No such thing. Girls can be just as good.'

'I suppose your girlfriend is really good, isn't she?' I look in the direction of Hails and Angie, who are only keeping one eye on the game.

Jonathan smiles and shakes his head. 'Neither of them are my girlfriend. Hails is with Taff. Angie's boyfriend is working late tonight.'

I attempt a coquettish look, batting my eyelashes like they do in movies. 'Do you have a girlfriend?'

Jonathan looks at me, unblinking, unsmiling. I search his face for a clue to his thoughts, but he's totally unreadable. Finally, he blinks.

'Yeah,' he says. That's all. I wonder if he's referring to Holly, acting the grieving and innocent 'widowed' boyfriend, or to someone new, found at the earliest opportunity having no remorse for murdering his last one.

'Oh, that's too bad,' I say, feigning disappointment. 'Where is she tonight?'

Jonathan stills, his eyes narrow. My heart beats faster in my chest and I hold my breath.

'She's away at the minute,' he replies.

'On holiday?'

'Careful, Noa,' Max murmurs. 'He's getting suspicious.'

I know, but I can't help myself. I just desperately need to find out more about his and Holly's relationship.

'Something like that,' says Jonathan and his voice is steely. 'What about this Max guy? Isn't he your boyfriend?' He raises a challenging eyebrow, deflecting the questions away from himself.

Max looks uncomfortable and I fob Jonathan off with a wave of my hand.

'Oh, crumbs, no. Not Max.'

Max looks at me, affronted. 'What? Why not Max? What's wrong with Max?'

Jonathan nods, dropping the subject, and resumes the game. In a matter of seconds he has potted the last two striped balls and finally the black ball. He holds up his hands in an apologetic gesture. 'Sorry.'

'Don't be,' I say. 'I enjoyed it.'

Taff returns with six bottles of beer linked between his fingers and deposits them on the table next to the girls. 'Who won?'

'Who do you think?' I joke.

Jonathan smiles, his expression less guarded again. 'Maybe we'll see you around again.' He holds out his hand and I shake it. His grip is firm, his palm rough with callouses. His message is unmistakable.

'Well, thanks for the game,' I say, feeling awkward that my presence is no longer required. I bid farewell to the others and make my exit.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	8. Dead Ends

**8 – DEAD ENDS**

* * *

The air outside is fresh and welcoming and I gulp it in. People are still filing into Crazy 8s or else lingering around outside. I walk away, taking care to keep to well-lit streets and glance across at Max. He hasn't said anything since we left the snooker hall. He has a thoughtful frown on his forehead, but he lightens up when I look his way.

'What did you think?' he asks.

'I don't know,' I say in complete honesty. I was really hoping he would have a better idea. 'He doesn't seem the murdering type, but on the other hand, I could feel he was playing with me when he said he'd moved a friend the night Holly disappeared and that his girlfriend was "away". Don't you think?'

Max shrugs. 'Was your father ever able to get information out of him?'

I wait for a bunch of youths to pass out of earshot before replying. 'He'd said he was with a friend. The friend backed him up, but what friend wouldn't?'

'Well, there is an alternative…' Max says.

I stop in the middle of the street. 'An alternative?'

'I don't know. It's probably nothing.'

He carries on walking and I have to jog to catch up. 'What?'

'Well, I've been thinking it over, the way Holly just pitched up at your house, the fact you said she was more faded than spirits usually appear to you –'

'That could have been because it was raining.'

'– True, but also how the wind seemed to force her away.'

'Yeah?' I don't know where he's going with this and I'm desperate for him to get to the point.

'The more I think of it, the more I'm certain she must have transpirited from Limus.'

'The limbo dimension?'

Max nods. 'Yes. The place where spirits with unfinished business go and…' His voice trails off and his forehead becomes furrowed again in thought.'

'And?'

'When I told you about Limbus, I didn't mention that that is where people who have taken their own lives generally end up, at least until they've completed their trials.'

I stop under the glare of a streetlight and stare at Max. He takes on a slightly golden luminescence, like a more divine Edward Cullen, except glowing rather than sparkling.

'So, you're saying Holly _committed suicide_?'

Max doesn't look wholly convinced by his own theory. 'Perhaps. Yes?'

'I suppose,' I say with a shrug as we move on again. 'Her mother does suffer from depression, and they did say she had mood swings. But they said that because of the drugs.'

'But you don't think she was on drugs,' says Max.

'Exactly, so they're either lying or there's a different reason for the mood swings.'

'You wouldn't think a person who is _happy_ would run away, would you?' Max queries and I have to agree. Maybe we've been so caught up in the fact that Holly's visit proved she's dead, that we didn't question the reason for her disappearance.

'That's right,' I say. 'Maybe she has killed herself. Maybe she was unhappy, ran away, and killed herself.' I ponder that depressing theory for a moment. 'But then why has no body been recovered?'

Max shrugs. 'The Fens are easy enough to get lost in, and rural and hostile enough not to attract too many passersby.'

I have no response. I think of Holly's ending her own life, of what place she must have been in to actually do it. Is it brave or is it weak to take your own life? I wouldn't have the guts to do it, I'd be too afraid of what pain I might put myself through. But suicides generally happen because people are already in pain. Not physical pain, but mental pain. So maybe it's not about courage. Maybe I just don't want it bad enough, which to be honest, I'm not that sad about. I remember Dad's words when we spoke about Emilie and the cause of her overdose, how he'd said suicide was selfish. That word pings a light in my brain – it wasn't so long ago that I heard him refer to selfishness in another moment. The time I'd snuck past the lounge to snoop through his office and he'd mumbled in his sleep 'Don't, Isabel, don't be so selfish.'

An unappetising thought worms its way to the front of my brain.

'Max?'

'Yes, Noa?'

I take a moment to word the question in my head first. 'Why has my mother never visited me?'

Max looks at me sadly and I blush. He holds out his hand and brushes the back of his fingers against my cheek in a tender gesture. 'I don't know,' he says. 'Transpirition isn't as easy as it sounds.'

'You manage it okay.'

Max laughs and again my cheeks heat up. I didn't mean it to sound so insulting.

'And I've had over a century to finesse the art,' he says.

'But Freda Ackroyd had only been dead three months when she visited me.' I argue.

'Perhaps your mother's guiding someone else?' he says with a shrug. He looks at my sullen expression and winks. 'Goodness knows I have to spend enough time keeping you out of trouble.'

I give him a look. 'What if she…' I bite my lip. I'm not able to finish the question, not able to handle the idea that my mother mightn't have visited me because she's in Limbus, and in Limbus for all the wrong reasons.

'What if she's what?' Max prompts and I shake my head forcefully.

'Nothing, I was just thinking out loud. Never mind.' I paste a bright look on my face as we near my street. 'By the way, why haven't I had to deliver any messages lately? I mean, apart from Freda Ackroyd's message to Genie, and Holly, I haven't had any visitors for at least two weeks.'

Max looks at me like he's about to challenge my change of subject but then averts his eyes. 'I don't know,' he says. Leave it with me and I'll see what I can find out.'

'Thanks. Now, back to Holly's case,' I say. We're almost at my house and I feel we need to make a plan before we part. 'We need to find out if she's the suicidal type.'

'Well, we've already spoken to her only two friends,' replies Max.

'Aha,' I say, raising a finger to counter him, 'but are there really only _two_? Remember that photo of her at her photography club?'

'Sharp Shooters?'

'Yup. I think tomorrow would be a good time to explore our photographic talents, don't you?'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan


	9. Sharp Shooting

**9 – SHARP SHOOTING**

* * *

Lunchtime the next day, I push open the heavy door to Sharp Shooters' upstairs studio. The room is open-plan like a gallery with pale wood floors and the crisp white walls exhibit a variety of photographic art. In the corners are glass cabinets showcasing camera equipment for sale way over my budget and through an archway I can just glimpse a flipchart facing a row of desks.

Max wanders over to look at the cameras, muttering, 'Goodness, things have come a long way.'

More immediately is an office desk under the window. The boy from Holly's group photo is sat behind his laptop. He gets up at my arrival, a broad smile on his face. He's quite ordinary looking, of stocky build with short brown hair and nervy hazel eyes.

'Can I help you?' he asks.

'Hi, yeah,' I say with a bright smile. 'I was just passing and wanted to see what you're about.'

'Are you a photographer? Amateur? Professional?' he probes.

'Neither really,' I say truthfully. 'I'm just starting out,' untruthfully. 'This stuff is amazing.' I step over to look at some mounted photos on the wall. Immediately recognisable are a couple of Holly's shots – one of her back garden in Germany with the brook at the bottom and another landscape shot of a forest.

'Well, we do evening classes for all levels,' says Dylan, following me over and clasping his hands. 'You'd just need to become a member. I'm Dylan, by the way, Dylan Quarry.' He holds out his hand. 'I'm the assistant manager, I suppose you could say.'

I shake his hand and give him an understanding grimace. 'I guess that means you have to work weekends when all your friends are out enjoying the sunshine. I'm Noa, without the H.' I give him my most winning smile. 'I take it all these pictures were done by your members?'

'Yeah,' he replies, nodding enthusiastically. His nervous energy is making me jumpy. 'We have an ongoing exhibition; all prints are for sale, including digital copies.'

I nod, make a big show of looking impressed. Max apparently has to try less hard, he's off the other side of the room examining the prints over there and making distracting noises of approval. I look closer at the print in front of me, and see Dylan's name under one of those derelict semi-circular World War 2 shelters made from corrugated steel in a forest clearing. The old grey metal contrasts well with the greenery around it.

'This is yours?' I ask.

Dylan looks down at his shoes, his cheeks pink and his hand-clasping intensifies. He points to another wall panel. 'We have a Sharp Shot of the Week competition just to keep things interested. Members only, of course, but entry is free.'

Centre stage is this week's Sharp Shot of the Week – a misty river at sunrise and two swans wading down the centre, sending apricot ripples across the still silky smooth water. Winners from previous weeks are further along. Last week's is a black and white image of an old woman with her gnarled hands folded in prayer. The week before is a huge orange fire in the black of night.

'Wow, these are amazing,' I say, genuinely impressed. 'Who –'

I see the captions below the images just in time that list the photographers' names and my breath catches in my throat. Holly Winslow's name proudly adorns the picture entitled 'Night Blaze'.

'The photographer's name is down the bottom here,' says Dylan, pointing unnecessarily. 'They are good, aren't they? The competition helps us strive to better our art.'

I've stopped listening to him. I'm trying to work out how long Holly has been missing. Surely longer than when her Sharp Shot of the Week was chosen? I glance over to Max and wish I could signal him somehow to get over here, but he's still busy examining the other wall.

'When were these taken?' I ask.

'Usually the week they're entered. Unless, of course, they're taken on holiday for instance when there's the delay of getting home before entering them.'

'And it would have to be the person who took the photo who enters?'

Dylan's brow knits as he gives me a bemused look. 'Well, yeah. This one, for example, was taken by Sherry O'Rourke,' he says pointing at 'Swan River'. 'She took it on Monday I think it was, and she entered it on Tuesday, and it was crowned Sharp Shot yesterday evening.'

Holly would just have been able to enter her picture before going missing, I realise. She'd disappeared two Mondays ago, straight after attending Sharp Shooters. It's a bit weird that they still awarded her the prize if she was missing. Could it have been one of those posthumous honorary awards in remembrance? Given that they dish out the awards on the Friday, they would have been jolly quick to assume the worst… unless someone here already knew Holly's fate. Then again, would any of them have known that Holly was missing at all? Mr and Mrs Winslow have been awful keen to keep her disappearance secret.

I try to concentrate on the task at hand as I notice Dylan giving me funny looks. 'Sounds like fun,' I say, beaming. 'What does the winner get?'

'A place on the wall. It's just a little competition to encourage our members.'

'I see. Like I said, it sounds like fun. I like this one, especially.' I point to Holly's 'Night Blaze'. 'Does she have other stuff on exhibition?'

'Oh, yeah. She's got a couple over here.' Dylan is quick to lead me to the original two photos I spotted when we first came in.

'She's very good,' I say. 'Is she a professional?'

'No, an amateur like most of us. She's probably around your age.'

'She's miles more talented that I could ever be,' I say, again not lying.

I try to gauge Dylan's feelings about Holly but he's not making things easy for me. There's a ring of pride in his voice as he speaks about her, but also a breathlessness. Is this just him eager to sign up a new member or is he a little nervous talking about Holly?

'Do you know her – what's her name – Holly?' I say, glancing at her name on the photo caption for effect. 'Do you know Holly well?'

Dylan gulps and his forehead prickles with sweat beads. Again, he could just be a nervy salesman. It could also be because it's really quite warm in here.

'So-so,' he replies, but he can't keep my gaze. 'We have lots of members. It's impossible to know them all really well.'

I nod. Is that so? The picture of him with his arm around Holly springs to mind, but I let it slide for the minute. I get the sense that if I push Dylan too far his nerves will boil over.

'I'd love to buy a print of this "Night Blaze", if that's okay? Do you have a contact for her? I'd love to look at more of her portfolio.'

'All purchases are done through Sharp Shooters.' There is a definite edge to his voice now. Considering he's about to make a sale, if he was just a nervy salesman he's ruining it now. It must be something deeper, something like Holly that's putting him on edge. But what though? What does he know? What did he do?

'Ah, okay,' I say pulling a face of mock disappointment.

'Do you want a print or a digital copy?' Dylan asks. 'I can do it for you now.'

Crap. Now I really have to buy it. 'Sure.' I beam at him again. 'A digital copy would be great.'

Dylan's shoulders marginally relax and he leads the way over to his desk and laptop. While he gets to work typing and clicking, I rummage through my bag for some money.

I hand it over and he takes it without meeting my eye. 'Thanks. What's your email address?'

'Noa Drury at livewire dot com.'

For a moment I'm seized with fear that he'll recognise my surname. I don't know if Dad came snooping around here when he was on the case. I should think he did considering this was the last place Holly was seen. But then he was probably smart enough to give a false name. Either way, Dylan doesn't appear to notice anything awry. He continues to tap away.

'There. That's sent now.' He meets my gaze at last and I give him a gentle smile. It seems to do the trick as he relaxes a little more. 'Do you want to join, maybe have a go at Sharp Shot yourself?'

'Oh, I don't know. I'm nowhere near as good.'

'It's half price for students,' he says gesturing to a members' price list on the desk. There is no way I am shelling out more money at Sharp Shooters.

'I'll think about it, Dylan. Thanks.'

'No problem. Is there anything else I can help you with?'

I hesitate. Now that he asks… I weigh up my options. Do I walk out of here never to return having picked up precisely no information except to confirm my suspicions that Dylan knows Holly more than he's letting on? Or do I stay and probe further and blow my cover?

A chill seeps over me as Max arrives at my shoulder. 'Ask him about Holly's disappearance,' he murmurs in my ear.

'Yeah, one,' I say to Dylan. 'When was the last time you saw Holly Winslow?'

Dylan's head comes up defensively and his eyes widen in surprise. 'Pardon?'

'When was the last time you saw her?'

'I – I don't know,' he splutters. 'Why are you asking?'

Having Max next to me bolsters my confidence – I don't know why; it's not like he can do anything if I talk my way into trouble – but it does. 'You might have noticed she hasn't come in for the past three weeks or so.'

Dylan's cheeks turn a deep shade of crimson and he gets to his feet. He walks over to a cabinet of camera lenses and fiddles with the glass door. 'Then I presume she's away on holiday,' he says, his voice ever so slightly shaky. 'It _is_ summer, you know.' He looks back and I can tell he has recovered most of his composure. 'Who are you? Why are you asking about Holly?'

I shrug. 'I'm just looking out for her, is all. Where were you on Monday, the week Holly's picture won Sharp Shot of the Week?'

Dylan's mouth drops open and his composure begins to crack. 'I – I don't know, Jesus, that was ages ago.'

I pull a mock undecided face and place a finger on my chin. 'Hmm, not really. Do you work here every day? Presumably you would have seen Holly that Monday?'

Dylan glares at me, his face turning puce again. Leaving the glass door of the cabinet to swing open and bang against the wall, he strides towards me and points at the door. 'I think it's time you left, don't you?'

I can't help myself. I swallow nervously and back away a couple of steps.

'Hold your ground, Noa, hold your ground,' says Max by my shoulder.

'Holly's a friend of yours, isn't she, Dylan?' I challenge him. 'That's what the group photo of you all tells me –'

'Get! Out!' Dylan stands over me, nostrils flared, chest heaving as he breathes angrily in my face. He stabs the air with his finger towards the door. 'Go on!'

I do my best not to step back again. He's a good foot taller than me. Instead I fill my lungs and raise my chin. 'You know she's missing, don't you? Aren't you worried about your friend?'

Dylan curls his lip in a sneer and grabs my arm. I gasp as his fingers press painfully into my skin. Before I can fight back, he's dragging me to the door.

'I don't know what the hell you're talking about,' he says through clenched teeth. 'I don't know Holly! I don't know what's she up to. It's none of my business –'

I try to wiggle free from his grip, desperate to keep eye contact with him. 'What are you scared of, Dylan? What do you have to hide?'

'– And it's no business of yours either! Go on!'

With that he pushes me out of the studio onto the narrow landing and slams the door in my face.

* * *

Max is waiting for me on the pavement outside once I've come down the stairs, rubbing my forearm.

'Well, that went well,' he says. But there's an apology in his smile and I can see he feels bad.

I readjust my t-shirt which Dylan yanked out of shape and walk over to the railings where I've stashed my bicycle. 'I don't know, Max. Maybe he doesn't know anything, maybe they were just posing in the photo. But I wasn't getting anywhere just admiring the pictures.'

'No?' says Max. 'Then perhaps you weren't paying enough attention to them then.'

I fiddle with my bicycle lock. It seems to have warped in the heat. 'Oh?'

Max tries not to look too pleased with himself. 'Only that one of Dylan's photos on display is an almost _exact_ replica of one in Holly's portfolio.'

I stand up, on the alert. 'Seriously? Which one?'

'The one of the cattle drinking by the canal with the water tower in the background.'

'And it's not a copy?'

Max shakes his head. He gestures to me to hurry up. 'Not a copy, but one would have to conclude they were taking photos of the same thing at the same time. Quite extraordinary how photography has advanced this past century.'

My mind races as I try to repuzzle this new clue. 'So, he's either lying about knowing her, or he's stalking her.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	10. You Have No New Messages

**10 – YOU HAVE NO NEW MESSAGES**

* * *

The following Tuesday, I'm making myself a ham, cheese and jam grilled sandwich for lunch. Spock is getting under my feet, ever hopeful, and panting because of this week's heatwave. The smoke alarm suddenly splits my ear drums and I drop everything to drag a kitchen chair into the middle of the room. I wobble as I climb up and switch the alarm off. My ears still ring.

'Good day!' says Max in a cheery voice behind me and I nearly fall off the chair in fright.

'Don't do that!' I exclaim, wobbling back down to safety.

'Sorry. Something smells good. What are you cooking?'

'This.' I open the sandwich toaster, burning my fingers. 'Ow! Ow! Ow!' I flick my hand to relieve the pain and Max is quick to step forward.

'Here…'

He reaches out and folds his fingers around mine, cooling them, relieving the pain. I look at him warily. We don't have much of a touchy-feely relationship – how can you with a spirit? And Max certainly hasn't offered such a tender gesture before.

He holds my gaze for a second, laughing blue eyes suddenly serious, then he looks away.

'Better?' he asks.

I nod and he hastily removes his hand. I turn my back on him to hide my red face and cut the sandwich in half. Max looks on in disgust as the jam and melted cheese ooze out deliciously.

'What _is_ that?' he asks.

'You never heard of a Monte Cristo sandwich?'

Max shudders. 'No.'

I take a bite and fan my mouth as the cheese burns my palate. 'You're missing out,' I say through a mouthful. I take my plate to the table and sit down while Max looks on with distaste.

'I think not. Nevertheless, I came to tell you –'

As Max moves around the table to face me, he is interrupted by the shrill peel of the smoke alarm going off again.

I get up, drag a chair over and turn it off again.

'Damned thing,' mutters Max, rubbing his ear. 'Must they make them so loud?'

'You were the one who set it off,' I say, sitting down again to my meal.

Max purses his lips but moves further away. 'As I was saying, I looked into why you haven't had any visitors since Holly Winslow. No one can explain why she came to you or from where, but what I can tell you is that you won't receive any more messages until hers has been settled.'

My throat closes up at his words and I choke on my sandwich. 'What?'

Max gives a resigned shrug. 'That's what the wisers tell me.'

No more messages? I'm filled with a sudden panic as it occurs to me what this means. No more messages means no more visitors which means no chance of my mother ever visiting me. 'But – but there was no message to deliver!'

'Don't be upset, we can find a way around this.'

I stare at him. He doesn't even look that convinced, himself. 'How, Max? When you can't even explain where Holly came from?'

'All right, all right.' He holds up his hands in surrender. 'Don't shoot the messenger.'

I glower at him. 'The messenger is meant to be _me_. You're the guide, remember? The one who knows the best way forward.'

'No, I never claimed to know that,' Max argues. 'If I knew the best way forward I would never have made Rob Roy jump that hedge and I wouldn't be here at all.'

I sigh and plonk my elbows on the table. My Monte Cristo sandwich holds no appeal anymore. I didn't ask for any of this. I certainly didn't ask to be visited by Holly and expected to solve her killing. 'This is so unfair.'

'Unfair?' says Max. 'Imagine how Holly feels. Are you sure there was no message to deliver? She mightn't have said it straight out.'

I shake my head. I don't know how many times I've replayed that night in my head, but nothing ever comes to light. 'Nope, there was nothing. She didn't mention anyone so it would be impossible to deliver it anyway.'

Max is silent for a moment as he rubs his chin thoughtfully. 'Maybe the message was for you. Did she ask you to do anything?'

'No, she just kept saying "Help me. Help me."'

Max blinks at me, uncomprehending. 'I'd say that's a pretty clear cut message then.'

'But I'm _trying_ to help her,' I say in exasperation. 'If finding her decomposing body is what she's after.'

'And tracking down her killer,' adds Max.

'And tracking down her killer.' I sigh again. It sounds so stupid saying such things. 'Who are we kidding? We're not really going to find her or her killer.' Really, all I am is some ignorant amateur who's arrogant enough to think she can do what the professionals – like Dad – couldn't do. 'It's not like we've got anywhere with her case,' I say.

'What do you mean?' says Max. 'Look what we've found out about Jonathan and Dylan and Eyra.'

'Yeah, we've uprooted a whole lot of _questions_. We haven't found any _answers_ yet though.' I cradle my head in my hands and puff out my cheeks in resignation. The thing that has enabled me to survive this long after my mother's death was the hope that one day I'd see her again. _Hope_. Such a powerful emotion. Love can do many things but hope is unique. It isn't dependent on anything else to exist. You can be all alone in the world and still have hope. You can survive a troubled and depressing existence if you have hope. But what hope do I have now? No more messages, no more chances of seeing Mum.

Despite myself, my eyes well up. 'I guess that's it then,' I say. 'No more messages.'

'Hey, sweetheart,' says Dad cheerily walking into the kitchen. 'What was that you were saying?'

I hastily wipe my eyes. 'Nothing. Just talking to – myself.'

Dad gives me a lingering look like he doesn't quite believe me then makes for the kettle. Max has to take evasive action, sidestepping him and ends up setting off the smoke alarm again.

'Is that thing faulty?' Dad yells above the noise. He reaches up and switches it off. 'Maybe the batteries need replacing. Do you want some coffee?'

Max gives me a small wave, a sad smile on his face, and walks out of the room.

Dad turns to me when he doesn't get a reply. 'Noa, are you okay?'

I drag my eyes away from the doorway and nod. 'Fine, thanks.'

He waves a coffee cup at me and I nod. 'Thanks.' I fiddle with the remains of my sandwich, and, after a moment's hesitation, I carry on. 'Dad?'

'Yes?'

'Have you heard anything more from the Winslows?'

Dad shakes his head. 'Just a message last week from a PI wanting me to give him Holly's case file that I'd built.'

I freeze, knowing half the information in still in my bedroom. 'And are you?' I proceed with caution.

Dad shrugs. 'Yes. Usually I'd sell it to the next guy on the case, no point in doing all that hard work for free, but for this case… I don't know, it's different, isn't it? He can have the lot for nothing if it means he finds Holly.' He looks at me curiously, as if noticing my anxiety for the first time. 'Have you had any more visits from her ghost?'

'Spirit,' I correct him.

'Sorry, _spirit_.'

I shake my head. 'No, but I've just been told I'm not going to get any more messages until she's found.'

Dad's face splits into a celebratory smile. 'That's great!' His face falls when I don't join in. 'Isn't it? Goodness knows you never asked for this job.'

'Yes, but…' I sigh. I don't know that I even want to explain things to Dad. It might upset him; he's always been very sensitive about speaking about Mum.

'You always used to mutter about having to do it,' he says. 'Why are you so down?'

'Because…' Rrr, can't a girl complain about something and still love it? 'Never mind, it's too complicated to explain.'

Dad puts a cup of steaming coffee in front of me and steps back to lean against the kitchen worktop. 'I wonder if this new PI will find her. There is one more possible lead I should add to his list.'

My ears prick up. 'Oh?'

'This insurance claim I'm investigating –the one about the arson attack on the farm outbuilding?'

'I remember.'

'Well…' Dad pauses to take a slurp of his hot drink. 'It turns out old Farmer Ackerman delivers milk to everyone in the area and guess who's on his list?'

'The Winslows?'

'Yup.'

Despite myself, my blood begins to coarse through my veins at the prospect of a new lead, a new opportunity to solve the case, a last chance to keep the messages coming. 'Okay, but…' I try to think rationally. Should we read too much into this development? 'Is it really that big a deal? I mean, Holly must be connected to dozens, hundreds of people. What makes this Farmer Ackerman so significant?'

Dad gives me a heavy-lidded look as he blows on his drink. 'If you saw the file I've accumulated on him, you'd understand. Restraining orders, some dodgy Internet history, a real loner. Hate to say it, but he fits the profile to a T.'

I think about Farmer Ackerman's burnt out barn – the perfect way to cover up a crime. 'Do you think his insurance claim is dodgy as well then?'

Dad shrugs. 'I don't know. I've just been taking a closer look at the photos supplied by Fortress Insurance and there are some things that suggest it was being used by someone other than Farmer Ackerman.'

'Like who?' I ask.

'Probably a homeless person. There's a burnt out sleeping bag and litter scattered around. Difficult to say whether it was recent or not.' He shrugs and pushes himself upright to make his exit.

'What did Farmer Ackerman use it for before it burnt down?'

Dad pauses by the door. 'Nothing. It was falling to pieces. He used to keep pigs in there, but it became so unstable he stopped using it until he could patch it up. Since his finances didn't improve, it never got done.' He taps the doorframe in finality and gives me a quick smile. 'I've got to get on. You got plans for today?'

Crazy 8s and Sharp Shooters cross my mind, but then I remember I have to return all of Holly's casework to the box because Dad hands it over to the new PI.

I need to find a photocopier.

'I might go out later,' I say. 'Spock needs some exercise.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	11. Coroner's Report

**11 – CORONER'S REPORT**

* * *

I'm home by late afternoon, hot, sweaty and in need of a shower. Nevertheless, I still have work to do. With Spock at my heels and my rucksack slung over my shoulder, I pause inside the front door.

'Dad?'

I hold my breath. There is no reply. I take a quick look in the lounge. Dad's not asleep in his recliner. I tiptoe to his study doorway and the door squeaks open.

'Dad?' I whisper.

The room is empty. With a quick look around just to be sure he's not casually walking out of the kitchen, I slip inside the study.

'You keep watch, okay?' I say, pointing to Spock.

Spock sits down and licks his lips, tail thumping on the floorboards, both eyes on me, none on the door. I sigh and carry on.

Round the desk I bend down to retrieve Holly's box of casework from its hiding place underneath, but my hand clutches at nothing. I bang my head in panic, searching. It's no longer there.

I stand up, panting hard. Could the new PI guy already have come to fetch it? Dad surely would have seen half of the contents were gone. Where is he now? Oh, boy, this is not good.

The only thing on show about the room is Farmer Ackerman's barn fire. I try the filing cabinet, but of course it's locked. Rattling it doesn't make it open either. Spock whines at me.

'You think I should?' I say to him. 'I mean it's not like I'm _stealing_ anything. I'm putting things _back_.'

I wish Max was here to lend some advice but I haven't seen him since this morning. I'm out of options. I scrabble through the top drawer of Dad's desk and find a couple of paperclips. I bend them straight, end up breaking one and having to find another. I glance at the door. I'd expected to be in and out of here in just a couple of minutes. I have no idea where Dad is or when he's coming home. And with the front door just yards away, there'll be no place to hide if he suddenly walks in.

I shake my hands to get rid of the tremble my adrenalin is causing and insert the crooked sticks of metal into the cabinet lock. In my head I see the inside workings of the lock, my paperclips moving like insect antennae to find the right spot.

The lock clicks open and I shove the paperclips in my jeans pocket. The filing cabinet slides open with a squeak to reveal Holly's box of paperwork.

'Aha!' I say to Spock in triumph and he whuffs in reply.

Working fast I carefully replace all of the casework I'd borrowed from the box, now that I've photocopies of everything I think I need. Done! I'm about to close it when I see a hanging file pushed back by the box entitled 'FAMILY'.

I look up just to be sure Dad hasn't crept in without my noticing then plunge my hand forward to flick through the file. Most of it appears to be boring official things like birth certificates, insurance documents and passports, but then one paper catches my eye.

I pull it out. It is a psychiatric report referencing ' _NOA DRURY_ '.

Curiosity overcoming my need for haste, I make myself more comfortable on the floor and start to read.

' _With regard to the aforementioned nine-year-old juvenile, I have been unable to ascertain the source of her hallucinations. The child responds in a rational and coherent manner to the tests given, and shows no distemper, social aversion or tendency to harm herself or others. I therefore diagnose her symptoms as being nothing more than a very vivid imagination coupled with childish roleplay with imaginary friends._

 _Given the recent trauma experienced by Miss Drury, I suspect these scenarios are likely linked to her mother's death, and are simply a way of dealing with her grief._

 _My recommendation would be to allow the child freedom to inhabit these fantasies until such time that she might be considered old enough to have grown out of such childlike behavioural patterns, whereupon further evaluation should be sought…'_

I snort. I remember the tests, looking at pictures of splodges and splashes and being asked what they looked like, the lady – presumably the psychiatrist – with the huge mole on her chin and severe blonde bob asking all sorts of questions while she played with the toy box.

'I didn't know it was for a psychiatric evaluation though,' I murmur.

It had all kicked off after my mother had died. Max had been visiting me for some time before then, but had become a much bigger part of my life after Mum's death. In hindsight, perhaps Mum had hidden my 'gift' from Dad – I know she had taken it seriously whereas he hadn't – but when she was gone, Dad was able to see it all for himself, and I was still too young to disguise it. That must have been what prompted the psych evaluation, although I'm sure at the time he'd told me it was something to do with school tests.

'Hmm, go figure,' I murmur to myself and slot the letter back into the file.

I wonder why he never sent me for another evaluation as recommended by the doctor. Obviously my 'hallucinations' had kept on happening. Perhaps he'd resigned himself to having a weird daughter, maybe he hadn't wanted her put in a loony bin, perhaps he now believed in her 'gift', so did that make him mad too?

I'm about to close the file when a letter jutting up makes me pause. My hand shakes as I draw it out. I know immediately what it is – my mother's coronary report. If Dad has lied to me all these years about the true cause of Mum's death – had she really committed suicide – surely this will set the record straight?

'Automobile accident,' I read aloud. 'Sudden impact-related injuries incurred to the head, chest, upper and lower abdomen.' I wince at the thought of such pain and trauma to one's body. How could anybody do that to themselves? I read on and my breath escapes as a relieved sigh. 'Death non-suspicious.'

This is the story I've always been fed, but when they say ' _Death non-suspicious_ ' does that only rule out the involvement of a third party? How can they know for sure that she didn't drive into that tree on purpose?

Tears well in my eyes at the thought and I brush them away. I slip the report back in the file and push the cabinet closed. The lock clicks and I never want to look inside again.

I take a moment to compose myself. I don't know why I don't totally believe the report, why I don't believe Dad, why I think Mum committed suicide – actually I do, it's to explain away the fact that she's never visited me. Never, even though I have this 'gift' that she was so fond of telling me I had to use. If she committed suicide it means she has no choice about visiting me… I think about it. It's meant to make me feel better, but it doesn't. It makes me feel just as depressed, if not more. What could have been so bad in her life that she had to kill herself? What was so bad that it meant more to her than loving me and Dad?

I can't think about it in here. I remember where I am, that Dad could come home any second, and I get to my feet. Spock thumps the floor with his tail.

'Good boy, let's get out of here.'

I glance at the corkboard wall on my way out. Pictures of Farmer Ackerman's barn charred timber and smouldering ashes. I see the images of the food cans, dented and blackened by the fire, the melted water bottles. I catch myself feeling sorry for him. What if he is telling the truth? What if he is hard up and his barn burnt down through no fault of his own? There are close-up shots of each of the cans – wow, someone was keen on rice pudding – but then there's one odd one that makes me pause. It shows a blackened metal necklace pendant in a complex Celtic knot type of design. Something about it is familiar.

Suddenly the front door slams shut and Dad's footsteps sound on the creaking floorboards.

I freeze for a moment then leap into action. I whip my phone out of my pocket and take a quick snap of the Celtic knot picture – I need to have a closer look at it – then I head for the door.

'Dad, is that you?' I say as casually as I can muster.

Dad appears in the doorway, looking surprised. 'Noa, what are you doing in here?'

I lean down to stroke Spock's head, to avoid meeting Dad's eyes. 'We've just arrived back ourselves. I was looking for you.'

Dad raises an eyebrow at me. 'You needed to go right into my office to know I wasn't in there?'

'No, of course not,' I say, thinking fast. 'I was just looking at your corkboard.'

Dad still looks sceptical, and he crosses his arms. 'Well, I hope you found it interesting. You really shouldn't be in here looking over confidential material.'

I give him a bored look. 'Like who am I going to tell?'

'I know, I know.' Dad relents, unfolds his arms and I notice the shopping bag he is holding. As he shifts, inside can be heard the clink of glass.

'Been shopping?' I ask.

Now it's Dad's turn to avoid my eyes. 'Just picked up a couple of essentials.'

I can't help the sneer that creeps over my face – the fact that he considers gin to be an 'essential', but I don't say anything. 'Yeah, well, I've got things to do. Come on, Spock.'

'As do I,' says Dad. He looks a little sheepish as I walk past him and through the house to my bedroom.

'Noa?' he calls after me. 'What say we grab a take-away tonight?'

I pause by my bedroom door. I may hate that he drinks, but sometimes I don't know that it's a choice he's really able to make. Sometimes it's difficult to understand. 'Sure,' I yell back.

* * *

That evening, I stand outside Dad's study and press my ear to the closed door. Inside Dad is talking to the new PI whom the Winslows' have hired. He's come to collect Dad's paperwork and I hold my breath as Dad hands it all over.

'You found any fresh leads?' I hear Dad ask.

'Nah.' The new PI's voice is gruff, slightly foreign sounding. 'They had a break-in last weekend, but it doesn't appear to be connected. Seems every way I turn things lead back to that boyfriend, Jonathan Kilpin.'

My heart skips a beat at the mention of our primary suspect.

'But his alibi is rock-solid,' the PI goes on and my heart sinks. 'I've checked it out with numerous sources.'

'Only until 6.30PM though, surely?' says Dad. 'He was helping someone move house, wasn't he?'

'Yeah. He claimed to go to the supermarket afterwards. I managed to get hold of their CCTV footage. He's there for a good half hour.'

I hear Dad exhale in frustration. 'By which time Holly would have already gone missing.'

'Yup. Her parents, or her mother, at least – Henry Winslow was in Germany as you know – expected her home by seven o'clock.'

Dad sucks his teeth and I can imagine him scratching his head, his brow furrowed with puzzlement and worry.

'The only other person I can think of who might have killd her is this farmer, Frank Ackerman,' he says.'

'Wait, what?' says the PI in surprise. 'You think she's dead, not a runaway?'

'You wouldn't believe me even if I told you,' he says finally.

'Try me.'

There's a pause and I wait in suspense for Dad's reply. Would he really admit to why he thinks Holly might be dead?

'Call it a hunch.'

'Who's this Ackerman fellow?' asks the PI.

I listen, maybe a little disappointed that Dad didn't come totally clean, as he briefs the PI on Farmer Ackerman's history.

'Were any remains found in the fire?' the PI asks.

'No. If he did kill her then he's stashed the body some place else.'

There's another pause and I can imagine the two of them deliberating over the clues together. Finally, there is the scuffing sound of movement and the scrape of a chair being pushed back.

'Well, I appreciate you filling me in,' says the PI. 'I won't take up any more of your time…'

I quickly sneak away before anyone sees me and head for my bedroom. My head is full of questions. If Jonathan Kilpin is innocent, then who is Holly's killer? Is there enough evidence to point to Farmer Ackerman? What motive could he possibly have for killing Holly? What about Dylan Quarry from Sharp Shooters? What is he hiding? Does Eyra have enough motive to kill her best friend? And lastly, are none of these people guilty – is Holly a suicide? And if so, where is her body?

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016

* * *

 _ **Author's Note: Hi everyone, we're about halfway through Girl Missing. Thanks to everyone who have read this far and thanks especially to those who have shared their thoughts via review. Since we're at this milestone, I'd really like to hear from more of you – let me know if I'm on right track, what am I doing right, what am I doing wrong, what would you change/like to see happen? My thanks in advance.**_


	12. Trespass

**12 – TRESPASS**

* * *

The next day, the weather is muggy as I wander through the streets of Cambridge with Max and Spock. The plan had been to find out a bit more about Dylan Quarry, but Sharp Shooters is closed today and I have no way of finding him. A rumble of thunder rolls in from the east as we near the main shopping mall. For a moment I consider catching a movie before I remember I have Spock with me, so I guess I should just head home before I get rained on.

As soon as I make this decision though, Max holds out his arm and I'm overcome by the shivers as I walk into it.

'What?'

'Look there,' he says, pointing ahead. 'Isn't that what's-her-name?'

I look through the crowds of people to where he's pointing and see a familiar blonde bob.

'Eyra,' I say.

'What do you want to do?'

I think quick. I still have my suspicions about Eyra, but nothing but hunches and speculations. If we followed her, I might get a better idea of what game she's playing. 'Come on,' I say, hurrying after her.

She leads us through the busiest part of town where it's easy enough to blend into the crowd, but then she takes a left turning and heads for the quieter residential streets. I keep my distance, but Eyra doesn't look around once. She's on a mission to get somewhere and she's not hanging about.

The more turnings we take the more lost I become, until suddenly I start recognising certain landmarks.

'Max, do you know where we are?'

Eyra disappears around the next corner and we hurry past a bus stop. Max points uncertainly at a corner shop. 'Isn't this…'

I gasp as I recognise it at the same time. 'Yes! It is!'

We stop at the corner shop and I peak around the corner. It's definitely Jonathan's street and Eyra looks like she's heading straight for his house.

Watching from the corner, I notice Eyra stop outside his front door. She fluffs up her hair and rings the bell. She adjusts her posture and puts a smile on her face as Jonathan opens the door.

Max and I both gasp as the couple embrace.

'Hello,' Max says under his breath. 'Is this a new development?'

I return his look of curiosity. 'Maybe.'

Jonathan gestures for Eyra to enter the house and the two disappear behind the closed door.

Max looks at me, eyes wide in excitement. 'What now?'

'We wait?' I suggest.

'What, here?'

I see his point. If either of them does come out again, we'll be stuck. 'I know. Let's go back to Midsummer Common and take cover beneath that tree.'

Crossing to the other side of the road, we hurry past. I turn my face away, just in case they're looking through the window even though I'm dying to see what they might be doing, then cross over the road to the common.

Beneath the beech tree, we wait in anticipation for their return. What are they doing inside? What are they talking about? What purpose does Eyra have at Jonathan's? I don't want to jump to conclusions, but my memory keeps returning to my meeting with Eyra and her fierce defence of Jonathan. Could our suspicions be right?

An excruciating quarter of an hour later, the door reopens and Jonathan and Eyra reappear. Eyra hugs Jonathan again, her hands lingering on his shoulders as she steps back and Jonathan allows the door to swing shut behind them. With a coy smile, Eyra waves as she skips down to the pavement and leaves.

'Er – Noa, do you see what I see?' says Max.

My binoculars are focussed on Jonathan. He turns back to his house and pulls up short at the closed door. He opens his arms in a despairing gesture and rattles the door knob. The door refuses to open.

'What?' I say to Max.

'Eyra's heading our way.'

I refocus my binos on the girl, standing at the traffic lights, waiting to cross over the road to Midsummer Common.

'Crap,' I mutter. 'Okay, hold on. I just want to see…'

I focus back on Jonathan to see how he's dealing with being locked out of his house. The weather is starting to turn and the first fresh breeze of the day sweeps across the common, a sure sign the rain is not far behind.

Jonathan looks about his immediate surroundings, looks in and under a flowerpot, under the mat.

'Noa, I think now would be a good time to make ourselves scarce,' says Max.

'Just a minute more…'

'I don't think we have a minute. She's going to see us any second.'

I look away from my binos. Max is right. Eyra is across the road, now strolling down the path in our direction. She's close enough for me to see the self-satisfied smile on her face.

I look through the binos again. Jonathan is feeling across the top of the door frame.

'Come on, come on,' I murmur.

Like the wind picking up, shaking our beech tree urgently, Eyra draws ever closer.

Jonathan steps into the adjoining overgrown flowerbed and reaches under the windowsill.

'Noa!' Max exclaims.

I can't wait to see if Jonathan has found his spare key. I whip my binos and rucksack together and roll over and around the beech tree out of sight just as Eyra saunters past.

Spock looks up in surprise, a random chewed and split tennis ball hanging from his mouth.

Peaking around the other side of the tree trunk, I see Eyra carry on walking, oblivious to my presence.

'Phew!' says Max. 'That was close.'

I don't have time to revel in our narrow escape. I scuttle back to the front of the tree, ignoring the dirt clinging to my palms and knees and focus my binos back on Jonathan.

I'm only in time to see him disappear back into his house.

'He must have found the key,' I say. 'Was it under the windowsill?'

Max shrugs. 'I don't know. I was too busy watching Eyra bear down on us. Someone might have let him in.'

Seconds later, Jonathan appears at the door again and my breath catches in my throat. It's all happening fast now. Where's he going? Are he and Eyra meeting some place else, to avoid suspicion?

Jonathan closes the door purposefully behind him. He shrugs a rucksack onto his back and heads off down the street in the opposite direction. Okay, maybe he's not going to meet Eyra again.

'Where are you going now?' I wonder aloud.

'Crazy 8s?' suggests Max.

I shove my binos in my rucksack and grab Spock's leash. 'Come on.'

Max jumps to his feet and hurries to catch up with me. 'Are we following him again?'

I hesitate. I'm not sure I want to tell Max my plan. I have the feeling he may not approve. 'Not quite.'

We stop at the road and wait impatiently for a gap in the traffic before crossing.

Max gives me a worried look. 'What do you mean "not quite"?'

* * *

We stop outside Jonathan's house. I peer down the length of the street to make sure he's out of sight. A few drops of rain sail in on the wind and I give Max an adventurous look.

'Oh no,' says Max, backing away, 'I don't like it when you look at me like that. What are you thinking?'

I step up to Jonathan's front door then across the flowerbed, taking care not to leave any boot imprints in the soil. I feel under the windowsill, the rough gritty texture of brick, cement and dirt, then suddenly the smooth cool metal of a key.

I can't help the grin radiating across my face as I pull it out and dangle it in front of Max.

Max looks horrified and darts a look up the street. 'Are you mad? He might come home. There might be someone inside. What about Spock?'

Spock whines and sits down, showing just what a good obedient dog he can be. Since I don't actually have an answer to any of Max's questions I ignore him and slide the key into the lock. It clicks open and my heart begins to thud against my chest. I quickly return the key to its hiding place then push open the front door.

I slip inside with Max and Spock at my heels, the latter more willing than the former, and gently close the door behind us.

The lounge that we step into is untidy, even by my standards. There is a trace of perfume in the air, presumably from Eyra. In front of us is a staircase and beyond can be seen a kitchen.

'Noa,' Max says under his breath. 'This is not a good idea.'

'Ssh, I just want a quick look around.'

'Don't ssh me, ssh yourself!' he snaps. ' _You're_ the one they can hear.'

'Why don't you keep a look out?' I suggest. Max does have his uses being invisible.

He gives me a despairing look and disappears through the front door.

I creep up the stairs. The beige carpet is worn and threadbare and the boards creek underneath. At the top of the stairs is a bathroom and two bedrooms on either side of the landing. I peak into the first bedroom. There is damp on the walls and the paint is peeling on the window frames. It appears to be used as a dumping ground and an office judging by the boxes and the desk and computer.

The second bedroom is bigger and has an unmade bed and dirty laundry on the floor. It has that unmistakable smell of 'boy' about it. I don't really know what I'm looking for.

'Noa!' says Max from downstairs. 'Hurry up!'

'In a minute,' I murmur automatically.

The bathroom is dark and windowless. I pull the light cord. A bare bulb illuminates the cramped room and the extractor fan hums into life. On the shelf, amongst all the male toiletries and impressive collection of hair gel, is a make-up bag and bottle of women's perfume. I take a quick sniff, it is the same as Eyra's brand.

'Noa!' cries Max again, his voice more desperate. 'He's coming back!'

'Crap.'

I switch off the light and stumble down the stairs. Spock, sensing my urgency, is quick on my heels. Suddenly Max appears through the closed front door and bars my way.

'You can't get out the front. He'll see you.'

I spin around to the kitchen and rush into the tiny dirty space. There's no backdoor. My pulse trebles in pace.

'Max, how do I get out?'

'Hide!'

I look around, frantic to find cover, but there's nowhere. 'Where?!'

There's no pantry and no empty cupboards to squeeze into in the kitchen and the lounge is so sparse of furniture we would be found in seconds.

Grabbing Spock, I thunder upstairs again and into the bedroom. I wrench open the wardrobe door, almost toppling the whole thing and my heart drops further. There is only drawers, no hanging space.

I run for the second bedroom, just as I hear the scratching of a key in the front door lock.

There is nowhere in the office to hide either.

As the front door clicks open, bringing in the sound of Cambridge traffic and a nearby police siren, I dive for the bathroom. I clutch Spock to my chest and step into the bath and pull the green shower curtain around us.

Spock whines and tries to scrabble out of my arms. I close my eyes, cringing, and hold onto him tighter. I try to reassure him by stroking his head and ears, but my hands are trembling so much, I can barely hold him.

The sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs makes me hold my breath. Jonathan reaches the top and pauses outside the bathroom. Max appears at the bottom of the bath and very slowly holds up his hands, warning me to keep still.

'Eh? Why are you on?' I hear Jonathan say.

At first I can't think what he's talking about then I realise he's referring to the extractor fan. I cringe. My mind races, searching for a Plan B, some sort of escape for when he inevitably discovers me.

The floorboards creak as Jonathan steps over the threshold into the bathroom. Max's expression shows maximum alarm as Jonathan pulls on the light cord. A flash of electric yellow then Max launches himself forward. The next moment the light bulb shatters. Jonathan springs back and even me and Spock cringe as the glass comes raining down.

'Jesus!' exclaims Jonathan. He audibly shivers and backs out of the bathroom. 'Damned place is falling apart.'

I breathe a sigh of relief as he moves into his bedroom. I'm about to step out from behind the curtain and make my escape when Max puts his hand out to stop me. Jonathan can be heard coming out of his bedroom muttering.

'Going to need one of these.'

I frown. What – and then I hear the sound of a cigarette lighter flint being struck as he passes by the bathroom and heads back down the stairs.

The front door opens and closes and the house is once again left in silence. Still I can't bring myself to move. My legs feel like cooked spaghetti and my heart is still pumping like a steam train.

* * *

Max appears moments later, his face relieved and relaxed.

'Okay, you can come out now. He's gone.'

I breathe out, realising for the first time that I've been holding it this entire time and I unsteadily step out of the bath. Spock wriggles free, giving me a most undignified look. I want nothing more than to sit down and recover the strength in my legs, but I know I must get out of here as soon as possible.

'I thought I was a goner there,' I say.

'So did I,' replies Max. 'I'm going to be in major trouble for intervening, you realise that? The wisers are going to kill me.'

'You're already dead though.'

'You know what I mean.'

I feel bad for Max. Instead of him being a good influence on me, I seem to be a bad influence on him. 'Blame me. Tell them you were protecting me.'

Max looks grumpy. 'Let's just get out of here before we run into any more trouble.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	13. Wrong Message

**13 – WRONG MESSAGE**

* * *

Outside, it's raining. Thunder crashes and the darkened day flashbulbs as lightning tears the sky. I close the front door behind me, not a little relieved, I must admit, and look up and down the street.

'Which way did he go?'

Max points in the direction of Crazy 8s' route. 'That way, but –'

I set off at a jog into the downpour, Spock running happily at my heels. Max is less forgiving.

'Noa, what in heaven's name are you doing?'

'He is going to lead us to Holly.'

'But Holly is dead!' cries Max. 'And we've got nothing on Jonathan.'

'Who says he was working alone?' I say. 'Don't you find it odd that his girlfriend has been missing less than a month and he's already seeing her best friend?'

'She might have just been stopping by. It doesn't mean they're dating.'

I slow to a walk as we approach the end of the road. 'Then why is her make-up bag and perfume in his bathroom?'

Max falters then has to hurry to catch up. 'How do you know it was hers?'

'The perfume is the same.'

'But…' Max tries to argue, but I can see he doesn't have anything to counter with.

'Max!' I say, exasperated. 'Don't you see? It all adds up. Eyra's always had the hots for Jonathan, but couldn't do anything about it because her best friend was dating him. Easiest solution? Eliminate Holly, get her out of the picture. Jonathan knows he's going to be the prime suspect so he keeps himself busy the night of her death. Eyra has no proper alibi. All we have on her is that she was at home in her bedroom. Well, she might've sneaked out, mightn't she? So, she kills Holly. Holly doesn't go down without a fight though; remember that bruise on Eyra's shoulder? Then, hey presto, problem solved and Eyra and Jonathan are free to do as they please.'

Max looks torn. 'Wouldn't it just be easier for Jonathan to break up with her? I can appreciate if this was all done in my era, when one would be sworn to his suitor, but it's not. We're in the twenty-first century, where, God forbid, it's not uncommon for people to have lots of girlfriends or boyfriends. You don't need to kill them in order to see someone else.'

'Well, then maybe Jonathan didn't have anything to do with it. Maybe it was all Eyra.' I glare at him. I'm getting drenched to the skin trying to solve Holly's murder and Max is not only putting thorns in every theory I come up with, but he doesn't appear to feel the rain either. 'Don't you get wet?' I ask.

Max looks up at the leaden sky. 'I'm not really here, Noa. You know that.'

I throw him a last dark look and step around the corner. To my surprise, Jonathan is barely ten metres ahead, standing under the shelter of a bus stop. I whip back out of sight, plastering myself to the wall and nearly strangle Spock, pulling him back.

'You keep a good hold on him now,' Max warns. 'We don't want a repeat of last time.'

The leash is slippery through my palm so I wind it around my hand for a better grip. 'I've got him.'

'Shouldn't we carry on following Eyra instead if she's the one who killed Holly?'

I can see the sense in what he's saying, but my instinct is telling me that Jonathan is involved, how I don't know, to what extent I haven't a clue. 'I – I don't know. I just think Jonathan might…' I sigh.

A number 32 bus trundles past us and heads for the bus stop. It stops with a _whoosh_ of its air brakes.

'He's getting on,' says Max from his vantage spot. I peak around the corner and watch a half dozen people alight from the bus before Jonathan and a couple others are able to board.

'Where's it going?' I ask.

'Can't tell from here,' says Max with a frown. 'It's a 32. Hang on…'

Max disappears then reappears next to the bus and gets on as the doors are closing.

For a second I'm too taken aback to do anything. 'Max! Wait!' I'm finally able to exclaim. 'What –' But it's too late to ask any questions. The bus lurches back into life and drives off down the road.

* * *

I hurry over to the bus stop but Max has definitely gone. With a sigh, I take shelter and look for a timetable that would tell me where the bus is heading, but there's nothing but an empty frame and a vandalised board.

From the corner of my eye I spot a woman still at the bus stop and she is looking straight at me. I ignore her. I know I must look like a drowned rat and goodness knows what my hair looks like now.

'Excuse me,' the woman says, 'aren't you that girl who…'

I look up and recognise Genie Ackroyd, daughter of my spirit visitor Freda Ackroyd.

'Oh!' I say in surprise. I've never bumped into a recipient after I delivered their message, so I've no idea how they might react to me after the event. 'Hello – um – how are you?'

By the looks of things, not well. Genie purses her lips and scowls at me. 'I'm fine, no thanks to you though, I might add.'

I look sideways awkwardly. I really don't want to have a showdown right here in the middle of the street. Thankfully, the rain seems to have washed the streets of people too.

'That "message" you delivered,' says Genie with a sneer, 'you must be pretty pleased with yourself, aren't you? Well, I can tell you it was a mean trick to play!'

'Sorry?'

Her face reddens with anger as she really gets into her stride. 'You're a nasty girl getting your kicks from playing on people's emotions when they're especially vulnerable!'

'But – but –' I stammer. 'What happened?'

'That so-called message from my mother was a load of rubbish, as you well know!'

With a last scowl, Genie gathers her things as another bus trundles towards us. I'm a little gobsmacked, I must admit. Delivering those messages is meant to be a good thing. The recipients might be a little traumatised by the whole thing at the beginning but once they do or find whatever it is their dearly departed wants of them, I would imagine they'd be happy… At least, that's what I've always believed, what I've always told myself.

'Wait! What do you mean?' I ask, reaching out to stall her.

Genie glares at me and pulls her sleeve free. 'I hope you had a good laugh sending me on such a fools' errand, you nasty girl!'

I'm suddenly filled with anger. I feel equally cheated. 'I'm not nasty! I didn't lie. She came to me, I swear.'

Genie looks me up and down and sniffs.

The bus pulls up and the doors open. A couple of passengers disembark.

'Then perhaps your parents should look into getting you some psychiatric help.'

This time I'm so taken aback that I don't even try to stop Genie from boarding the bus. The doors fold shut and the bus moves away.

I watch it disappear into the grey rain, her words rattling in my ears. I think of the psychiatric report in Dad's filing cabinet. No. I push it away. _They're_ the ones who are mad, not me.

'What was all that about?' I ask Max.

When he doesn't answer, I remember he got on the 32 bus. I frown to myself. I do sound a bit mad, I suppose. But Max _does_ exist, doesn't he? Freda did visit me, didn't she? I remember vividly her long grey hair, her shy smile and husky voice. Am I going mad, or worse still, gone mad already? Is all this a figment of a very deluded imagination? The psychiatrist had advised that further help be sought if I continued to have 'hallucinations' but Dad had never bothered. Had he decided to keep quiet about it all? He'd lost his wife, maybe he was afraid that if he spoke up his daughter would be taken away from him too? Has he just been humouring me all these years? He certainly didn't want to tell Holly's parents about her visit to me and I'd just accepted his reasons for not doing so – that it wasn't hard proof. What if Dad has known all along that my 'visits' are, in fact, hallucinations, just like the psychiatrist said?

I walk home in the rain with Spock, questions and theories spinning in my brain. Could I really be insane?

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	14. Insanity

**14 – INSANITY**

* * *

I'm still no closer to an answer later that night as I get ready for bed. Spock jumps onto the covers as I put my hot chocolate on the bedside table and I lean down to stroke his head.

'Spock, am I really insane?'

Spock tries to lick my hand as I'm stroking him. Overexcited, he catches sight of himself in the mirror and springboards off the bed to bark at his reflection. Great, I wouldn't get a rational answer out of him anyway.

I switch off the lamp and Spock quietens. In the darkness I go to the window and let the breeze blow on my face. The thunderstorms of earlier have passed, but there is still moisture in the air. I close my eyes tight and clench my fists.

Nothing happens.

I open my eyes with a sigh and look around. I can't do it in here. I hoist myself onto the window ledge and swings my legs around so they're dangling over the edge. I push myself off and drop down onto the bench below my window then onto the ground.

The grass tickles the soles of my feet as I step into the middle of our tiny garden, the moisture seeping between my toes. I stop and raise my arms out wide, fists clenched. I close my eyes and tilt my head up to the heavens.

'Come on,' I whisper. 'Come back to me. Let me know you're really there.'

My body turns, whirls around of its own accord. I can feel the wind rushing its greedy fingers through my pyjamas, hear it swooping around the corners of the garden. The hairs on my neck prickle as the temperature drops.

'Come on, Holly,' I whisper through gritted teeth. 'Come back. Let me help you. Help _me_ help you.'

The hedge rustles and my eyes snap open. I stop spinning and the world banks to the right.

'Holly?' I say, trying to stave off the dizziness.

Max appears, unhooking the sleeve of his gypsy shirt from the sharp leaves of the hedge then dusting down his shoulders. 'No, it's only me. Why would you think it was Holly?'

I deflate. 'Doesn't matter.'

I head back for the window and hoist myself back up again.

'Hey, where are you going?' Max's voice is concerned. 'What are you doing out here anyway?'

I sit there on the ledge, feet dangling. I can't look him in the eye. 'Trying to convince myself that I'm not mad… or that I am, I'm still not sure.'

Max walks over to me, thumbs looped through the top of his breeches. 'Why would you think that?'

'Because of what Genie Ackroyd said – hang on,' I say, stopping myself short. 'Where did you disappear off to earlier? You just took off.'

Max raises a finger. 'Ah, yes…' He taps his nose and makes himself comfortable on the bench like he's on a therapy couch. He links his fingers behind his head and looks up at me. 'I was following Jonathan,' he says, sounding rather proud of such rebelliousness.

'What? Where did he go to?'

'Well, perhaps it's more accurate to say I _tried_ to follow him. I can only travel so far away from you in the mortal world. It's kind of like you losing signal on your phone the further you go away from a signal tower, I suppose. The wisers aren't best pleased with me for taking such liberties – I'm not supposed to stray from you when I transpirit back here – but I thought in for a penny, in for a pound.'

'Oh dear,' I reply. I honestly don't want Max to get in trouble and even less so when it's because of me. 'But the wisers could see you were kind of helping me by following Jonathan, right? How far did you get?'

'Well, the 32 apparently goes to Impington, Oakington, Cottenham and back to Cambridge. I couldn't stay on any longer than Impington, and he didn't get off there, which means he got off at one of the other two stops.'

I sigh and lean against the cold window frame. 'I guess it doesn't matter anymore.'

'What do you mean?' Bless him, Max looks genuinely concerned and I hesitate. I don't want to offend him in any way – actually, if I am what I suspect I am then just thinking that shows how screwed up in the head I am.

'Max,' I say uncertainly, 'are you real? I mean, are you really lying there on that wet bench talking to me, or are you just something I made up in my head like some figment of my imagination?'

He looks unoffended, just a small frown settling beneath the curls on his forehead as he gives my question some thought. 'I'm as real as any spirit is, I suppose,' he says at length. 'Real is a relative term, of course. When you are mortal you only consider things that exist in your mortal world to be 'real', when that is obviously most inaccurate.'

'Hmm.' I don't know. I'm glad I haven't hurt his feelings, but at the same time his answer doesn't lend me much reassurance.

'What's on your mind?' he asks.

I shrug. I feel stupid even telling it to Max. It's like asking insanity if I'm insane. 'I bumped into Genie at the bus stop. You remember her – Freda Ackroyd's daughter? She told me the message I'd delivered to her was wrong.'

Max sits up straight, looking affronted. 'But how can that be?'

'I don't know. She wouldn't elaborate, she was too busy telling me I was either a mean and nasty person or that I was mentally deranged.'

Max's indignant expression intensifies. 'But you're neither!'

I smile appreciatively at him. I guess if you're going to see imaginary things, it helps if they have your back. 'Thanks, you're sweet.'

'I didn't say it to make you feel better, I said it because it's a fact.'

I stretch my feet out, my toes are getting a bit cold being wet and outside. 'She has a point though, doesn't she? I mean, how many people get to sit on their window ledge and have a full blown conversation with a nineteenth century ghost stretched out on their garden bench wearing horse riding breeches and boots?'

Max blinks as if it's the most normal thing in the world. 'Then I think the simple fact that you're questioning your sanity is proof enough that you're sane. Mad people don't question their sanity.'

I give him a doubtful look. 'Really?'

'Absolutely,' he replies with a resolute nod. 'My uncle Archibald was mad as a box of frogs, everyone knew it, but he took himself deadly serious, so serious in fact that he despaired of anyone ever understanding him. Took his own life in the end, poor chap.'

Well, there's a way to make me feel better, I think, then chastise myself for being so selfish. I mightn't have known Uncle Archibald but Max did. 'I'm sorry.'

Max shrugs. 'It was a long time ago now.'

'Did he go to that Limbus place you were telling me about?'

He nods and gets up from the bench. I notice that the pools of raindrops that had accumulated on the wooden slats remain undisturbed by his lying on top of them.

'Did he ever make it out?' I ask and he shrugs.

'I presume so. I've not come across him, but it would be an awful long time to be there if he hadn't.'

I lapse into silence. Was Max's Uncle Archibald really that much different from me? People don't understand me either, don't understand that I can talk to spirts. If Genie Ackroyd is right and the message wasn't correct then who was to say the message hadn't just been plucked from my deluded subconscious? Receiving Max's reassurance that I'm sane is like being told it's safe to cross the stormy sea by the ferryman taking the fares.

What about Holly's visit? What if that too was made up? What if Holly is still alive, is indeed a runaway, and that I've simply concocted this whole theory over her murder from the misguided workings of my imagination?

 _I broke into someone's house today, for goodness' sake!_

And what of this whole business about suicide? Of Holly, of Uncle Archibald, of my mother? Did I dream up the concept of this Limbus dimension – a place for lost souls? It doesn't sound at all nice. I'd rather believe I'm insane than believe Mum might be stuck in Limbus.

'This whole thing's a load of crap anyway,' I mumble and swing back into my bedroom.

* * *

I wipe down my feet on the rug and climb into bed. Spock rearranges himself at the foot of the covers, his head resting on his paws, his eyes gliterring like onyx stones as he looks at me with concerned dark eyes. I sip my hot chocolate and wait for my 'imaginary friend' to argue his existence.

Sure enough, the next moment Max has appeared in my bedroom, arms planted on his hips like a diva. 'What's wrong with you today?'

'Go away, Max. I just want to sleep.'

'No, I won't go away. I don't like this – this _defeatist_ attitude I'm seeing here,' he says with a curt gesture towards me. 'You're doubting yourself, I see that. And really, if I was just a figment of your imagination, wouldn't you have made me a lot more handsome?'

'I –' I stop myself from instinctively telling him how handsome I think he is already. I'm glad it's dark so he can't see my blushes.

'Tell me to do something, ask me something,' Max continues. 'Let me prove to you I'm not a figment of your imagination.'

I give him a heavy-lidded look and sip again from my hot chocolate. There isn't much either of us can do to prove Max's existence and he knows it. We both do. But then an idea strikes me.

'I know.' I put down my mug and pick up my phone. I aim it at Max. Max gives me a wild look, like I'm about to zap him with a cattle prod.

'What are you doing?'

'I'm taking a photo of you. My phone won't lie, will it?'

Max looks mildly irritated. 'Yes, but I don't know if that –'

He's interrupted by a flash and a fake shutter sound. I examine the image, not wholly surprised by what I see. I hold it out to Max.

'See?' Not even my phone thinks you're there.'

'I'm not sure you should take the word of your phone,' he replies haughtily. 'It was made in the mortal world, after all.'

I zoom in on the dark screen for a closer look, but there's absolutely no trace of Max. 'But there's nothing at all, not even a glow or an outline.'

Max steps closer for a better look and I zoom in and out again to show him. In my conviction I swipe to the last photo taken by mistake. It's the Celtic knot photo from Dad's corkboard. I'd totally forgotten about it.

'What's that?' Max asks.

'Oh, just a picture from Dad's new case. You know the arson attack at Farmer Ackerman's? I thought at the time it looked familiar, but I've no idea why. Hell, now that I'm doubting my own sanity I don't know what –'

Max sits down on the bed beside me to get a better look. 'Well, of course you thought it looked familiar.' He looks around, a sudden urgency to his movements. 'Where are the photos of Holly that you had?'

I frown at him. 'I've only got copies now, and they're not even that good.'

'Get them out! Let me show you!'

The part of my brain that wants to be sane tells me to ignore him, it'll just make me look madder if I do what he asks, but there is such desperation in his expression that I have to obey.

I switch on the lamp and hang over the side of my bed to pull out the folder from beneath it. I plonk it down on my rumpled sheets and open it.

I pick up the first photo, the Sharp Shooters group photo. Max looks critically at it for a moment then shakes his head.

Humouring him, I pick up the next photo, the one of Holly and Emilie at the German market. Then I see it. I don't even need Max to point it out.

'She's got the same design on her necklace!' I cry.

I clamp my mouth shut and stare at the door, waiting for Dad to ask whom I'm talking to. I lower my voice. 'It is the same design, isn't it?

Max is urgently comparing the phone image to the copied photo. 'Not just the same design. It is the same necklace. The black string she's got tied around her neck has obviously been burnt away, but there's a little hook there where it would have gone through.' He points his little finger to the image on the phone and sure enough I see the tiny metal loop.

Max and I stare at each other.

'Could Holly have died in the fire?' I say in horror. ' _Burned alive_?' My eyes widen at the thought of such a gruesome death then reason prevails. I shake my head, answering my own question. 'No, she can't have. I overheard Dad talking to the Winslows' new PI. He said no remains had been found in the debris.'

Max deflates slightly at this potential hurdle. 'But this must surely implicate Farmer Ackerman now.'

'Def–' I'm about to agree, but then I stop myself as I remember something else. 'Or maybe not. Do you remember I played pool with Jonathan? Did you notice the burns on his hands and arms?'

Max nods. 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

I pause to ponder, running it through in my head before voicing it. Yup, it sounds right. 'That Eyra kidnapped Holly, hid her in a derelict barn and kept her there long enough for Jonathan to establish an alibi. Then he killed Holly and burnt down the barn to destroy any evidence of the crime?'

Max nods again. 'Sounds more than speculative, doesn't it? This necklace is the key!'

Euphoria at solving Holly's murder threatens to overcome reason, but I make myself think rationally. 'How do we prove it though?'

'Maybe find out if Eyra's alibi holds up?' suggests Max. 'She says she was home in her room during that time. She had to be doing something during that time, surely?'

'Right, okay, let's think…' I frown at my lumpy duvet. 'Okay, she said she was on her computer, chatting. She must have an internet history or cache we can look at.'

'A _what_?'

'Sorry, sometimes I forget you're from the nineteenth century. An internet history would show us what she's been doing on her computer and when.'

'So, how do we get access to that information?'

I frown again. This bit's harder. 'Yeah, I have to think about that one.'

'Well, you sleep on it and I'll see you tomorrow,' says Max. He winks at me and gives me a serene smile. 'Goodnight.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	15. Stamp of Certainty

**15 – STAMP OF CERTAINTY**

* * *

Preparing a salad for lunch and I can't shake the feeling that something is up. It's been a day and a half since I last saw Max, which mightn't seem a lot, but you don't know Max. When he says he's going to visit, he visits, no questions, no dramas, no getting held up in spirit traffic.

As I hold the tomatoes and carrots under the cold tap, I can't quite wash away the feeling that Max's absence has something to do with getting Genie's message wrong. I don't really know what goes on his side of the mortality boundary, but he often mentions the 'wisers'. I've always just assumed they are some sort of spirit judiciary board who oversee the messages that I receive and deliver. Max has said on a couple of occasions recently that the wisers won't approve of certain actions he's taken like blowing up the light bulb in Jonathan's bathroom and following him on that bus. Maybe he's in more trouble than either of us thought?

I bite my lip in regret. I hope he doesn't stay away too long. Apart from my peace of mind, I need him back to brainstorm ideas about Holly's case. Despite two nights to sleep on it, I still haven't figured out a way of verifying Eyra's alibi.

I pause over my salad, then grab another plate and do a second helping.

* * *

I knock on Dad's study door and push it open, my hands full of salad plates. Dad is sat at his desk, working. He looks at me over the gold rims of his spectacles.

'Hey, sweetheart.'

'Hey,' I reply. 'I made you some lunch.'

He takes off his glasses and puts down his pen. His chair squeaks in protest as he leans back and beams at me. I give him his salad and sit down on the couch, legs folded beneath me.

'How's the Ackerman case going?' I ask.

Dad shrugs over a mouthful. 'I think we can safely assume it was arson. There were traces of lighter fluid found at the scene. But who exactly is responsible is anyone's guess. Apart from financial gain there's nothing to tie Farmer Ackerman to the fire, and even then he must surely have realised he would come under suspicion.'

'Will the insurance people pay out?'

Dad takes another big mouthful of ham and cucumber and chews thoughtfully. 'Who knows?' comes his muffled response. 'Probably not if they can help it.'

I toy with my food, my appetite playing second fiddle to my curiosity, and I give it a couple of moments before probing further. 'I heard that new PI guy here the other day,' I say casually, chasing a cherry tomato around my plate. 'Do you know how he's getting on?'

'Nah, they're not bothered about keeping us in the loop anymore.'

I pause again, wondering how I might broach the subject without raising Dad's suspicions. 'You know, I was watching TV last night – two programmes, one after the other, and they made me think.'

'Oh?' Dad says, raising an eyebrow.

'Yeah. The first was a magic show and it reminded me how magicians use distraction to take your attention away from the moment the trick is done. Like those pretty female assistants in leotards not actually doing anything.'

'Okay,' Dad says, waiting for the point.

Thankful that he didn't ask what it was called or what channel it was on, I hurry on. 'And the second was a Crimes of Passion programme about two best friends and one killed the other because they were both in love with the same man. And she was _not_ your typical murderer. Far from it.'

Dad nods, but doesn't look terribly intrigued. 'Okay, so where are you going with this?'

'Well, it just made me think about Holly's case. All the attention is immediately drawn to that boyfriend of hers – what's his name?' I ask just to compound my distance from the case.

'Jonathan Kilpin.'

'Yeah, Jonathan. I mean he looks the obvious guy, doesn't he? But then what if he's nothing more than a distraction? What if the person responsible is her best friend? The person you'd least expect?'

Dad laughs and covers his mouth. 'I appreciate your thoughts on the matter, Noa, but no. It wasn't her best friend.'

I glare at Dad. He's not taking me seriously. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

He says it so matter of course that naturally I'm sceptical. 'How can you be so sure?'

Dad stops laughing when he catches onto my doubt. 'Because, Noa,' he says, sounding offended, 'her alibi checks out. Eyra Styne was at home the whole time.'

'But it's easy enough to sneak out, isn't it?'

'I don't like it when you say it's that easy,' says Dad, narrowing his eyes at me, 'but no, it definitely wasn't her.'

Frustrated, I put my plate aside and glare at the opposite wall. I _need_ Eyra to not have an alibi for my theory to be correct. 'What was she doing at home? If it's her family backing up her alibi, then I wouldn't trust them. They're her family, invested interests and all that –'

'Noa,' says Dad, his tone sharp, 'I made sure, all right? Eyra didn't have anything to do with it.'

I frown at him. He still hasn't said why he's so sure. My frown deepens when I notice Dad looking shifty. 'What?' I say warily.

'I hacked into her phone and laptop, okay?' he rushes, holding up his hands in defeat.

I gasp in delight and lean forward in my seat. 'You never!'

Dad looks decidedly guilty. 'I did, but don't let that be an example for you to follow,' he says, wagging a finger at me. 'I only did it as a last resort to clear her name.'

I give him a knowing smile. 'Sure. I believe you.'

'I did! I –'

'Okay, okay. So, what did you find out?'

There's no harm in knowing is there? For all we know Eyra might be involved in some other way. If what Max and I witnessed the other afternoon is to be believed, she certainly has motive to be involved.

'She was in a chatroom the whole time,' says Dad. 'I didn't pry further. That was enough for me to know.'

I huff in disappointment and pick up my plate again. I bite into a cherry tomato and Dad gives me a curious look.

'Sorry if I ruined your theory,' he says.

'S'okay. It was just an idea,' I say with a shrug. What else am I supposed to say? Sure, I'm disappointed and annoyed and pretty much back at square one again, but Dad can't know any of that.

My healthy lunch looks even less appetising now and I get up to leave the room. I can't help it but my eye is drawn to Dad's corkboard and the photo of the blackened Celtic knot.

'What's that?' I say, trying to appear nonchalant.

'That?' Dad looks over his shoulder to where I'm pointing. 'Oh, that. It's a Celtic knot symbolising sisterhood. It was found in the burnt out barn. Weird, eh?'

I frown. Why would Holly be wearing a necklace symbolising sisterhood? She was an only child. Unless, of course, she and Emilie were so close they considered each other to be sisters. Not impossible. Then again, my whole theory about Holly's disappearance seems to swirling down the plughole now Eyra's alibi has checked out.

I'm about to give up and go to my room when I notice a flash card near the Celtic knot picture and the words 'ANNE QUARRY' written on it.

My stomach flips at the familiar name. 'Who's that?' I say, stepping closer.

'Who?'

'Anne Quarry?'

Dad gives me a heavy-lidded look. 'Noa, you realise I shouldn't be discussing any of this with you. We've had this conversation before.'

'Yeah, I know, and I said "Who am I going to tell?" Who is she?'

'Frank Ackerman's sister. Lives locally, seems to help him out quite a bit.'

I nod thoughtfully, trying to appear calm and uninterested.

'Why?' says Dad.

'Oh, no reason,' I say, batting my hand and moving to the door. Inside, my brain is racing. 'I just thought it was an unusual name. I'll see you later.'

I leave Dad to his work and stop outside the door to catch my breath. It _is_ an unusual name; could it be coincidence that Holly's friend Dylan has the same surname or are they related?

* * *

I log onto my laptop and look around restlessly. 'Come on, Max. Where are you?' I mutter. 'Things are happening.'

I do a census search and find the households of Douglas and Anne Quarry in Cambridge and their four children Donald, Allison, Amber… and Dylan.

'Holy crap,' I murmur, looking up. Spock, sitting at the foot of the bed, whines, one ear cocked. 'Farmer Ackerman is Dylan's uncle.'

I know Dylan doesn't have an alibi for the night Holly disappeared. Could it all be down to him?

I swing over the side of my bed and delve underneath for my file on Holly. I find the photo of the Sharp Shooters club and examine Dylan's face, his expression, his body language, anything that might hint at something new now that I know a bit more about him. He has very ordinary, quite forgettable features; he looks completely harmless. Yet I know he's strong, the arm he has around Holly is muscular, protective.

I recall how he claimed not to know Holly, blushed when I'd started asking questions, avoided my eyes when I'd asked about his relationship with Holly.

Had he killed Holly in a fit of jealousy? Tried to make a move, been turned down and killed her as punishment? Were the burns on Jonathan's arms pure coincidence?

I look at Holly's photo of the cows drinking by the river with the water tower in the background. Max was right – it is very similar to the one taken by Dylan. Could he have been stalking Holly, been caught so had killed her to keep his secret?

Were those Farmer Ackerman's cows? I'm sure Dad said he was a dairy farmer. Had Holly been on Farmer Ackerman's property? With his consent? Or had she been trespassing? It would be the perfect location to carry out the murder – a remote area that Dylan was already familiar with, knowledge of his uncle's derelict barn. He could have taken her body there until he'd found a more permanent place to dump her body. Then he would just have to burn the barn down to destroy the evidence, just like I'd thought Jonathan had done.

I look again at the Sharp Shooters club photo. Could Dylan be capable of such violence? He looks so _friendly_ , so _approachable_. Having said that he's already proved what a quick temper he has when manhandling me out of the studio. The irony was that he'd been wearing a leather Peace bracelet, I remember, not something one would imagine a murderer would wear. He'd been strong, had no problem chucking me out, strong muscular arms, no visible tattoos, although…

I hesitate as a tiny memory flashes through my mind: a stamp on the inside of his arm; the design: two crossed cue sticks over a number 8 ball – the same stamp used to get into Crazy 8s Snooker Hall.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan


	16. Black-Balled

**16 – BLACK-BALLED**

* * *

The next day, Spock and I idle outside Crazy 8s. It's another scorching hot day, not the sort of day to be out tailing murder suspects but I've waited as long as I can.

'Come on, Max. Where are you?' I mutter.

I look around to make sure no one is coming then close my eyes tight and fold my hands into fists. It worked when I was trying to summon Holly in my garden, hadn't it?

I try to will Max to appear, but when I open my eyes, it's still stinking hot and the sun is blindingly bright and Max is nowhere to be seen.

'Well, we're just going to have to do it ourselves, aren't we?' I say to Spock.

Spock looks sideways in uncertainly and wags his tail. I like his attitude – when unsure, just say yes.

'Come on then,' I say and lead him over to Crazy 8s entrance.

Inside it's contrastingly dark and the peroxide blonde in the ticket booth gives me a bored look.

'Member or non-member?' she asks, not moving her chin from her cupped hand holding it up.

'Um – non-member, but I –'

'Two pounds then – hey, no dogs allowed inside,' she says, spotting Spock and for the first time showing some animation to her face.

'Actually, I don't really need to go in.' I give her an awkward smile, try to get her onside. 'You see, I was wondering if maybe you could help me with something.'

The ticket girl frowns at me. 'Like what?'

I dig out a blown up picture of Dylan which I cropped from the Sharp Shooters image and hold it up for her to see. 'Do you know this guy?'

The ticket girl looks at the photo pressed up against the glass then gives me a wary glance. 'That depends on who's asking?'

'A friend.'

'Well, then,' she says, sitting back on her stool and crossing her arms, 'any friend shouldn't have to go snooping behind his back to find out what he gets up to.'

I inwardly cringe. This is not going how I'd hoped. 'Okay, maybe not a friend as such,' I concede. 'But I'm a friend _of a friend_.'

The ticket girl continues to look unbelieving.

As a last resort I sigh and pull out the photo of Holly and Emilie. 'I'm _her_ friend, okay?' I say, holding it up for her to see and tapping Holly's image. 'Have you seen her lately?'

The ticket girl appears unmoved, only going so far as to shrug. 'It's the summer holidays. People go away.'

'Well, she hasn't gone on any holiday, I can assure you,' I say, my patience at her insolence waning. 'Look, please, it's really important that you help me. Do you recognise this guy?'

I hold up Dylan's photo again and she shakes her head.

'Nah, sorry, don't think so.'

I narrow my eyes at her. Her expression remains so unmoving, it's impossible to tell if she's lying or not. She shifts under my scrutiny.

'Of course, lots of people come through these doors,' she says, 'but I don't remember him. What's the story with them?'

I've already stopped listening. If I can't rely on this girl's word, I'll have to tail Dylan. But would tailing him do any good? Would he lead me to Holly's body if he is the one responsible for her death? I could really do with Max's help right now.

'Hey,' says the ticket girl, 'I said _what's the story with these two_?'

'Nothing,' I say, distracted. 'I just needed – you've been great, really helpful. Thanks. I've got to go.'

* * *

I step out into the sunshine with a heavy heart. I chew my lip in deliberation, trying to decide what my next move should be. Maybe I should tail Dylan some more, find out who his friends are, ask them if he's a regular at the snooker hall.

I walk past the large curtained front windows of Crazy 8s over to the bicycle rack down the side. But as I do so, I spot the reflection of Jonathan in the glass, coming out of the side alley.

Not thinking twice, I grab Spock and dive for the nearest cover – an electricity box and a rubbish bin to the far left of the building. It's difficult to tell which hums more. Holding Spock quiet against me, I peep through the gap between the box and the bin at Jonathan strolling towards Crazy 8s. Doesn't he overheat in that black leather jacket?

He looks cool enough, casual with his hands tucked into his pockets.

Spock also spots him and tries to wriggle free, tail slapping against me. He gives a small whuff and I clamp my hand down over his muzzle. Spock growls at my restraint and I cringe.

Jonathan pauses outside the doors to listen.

I hold my breath. I've no clue how I'll talk my way out of this one. Thankfully, Spock stays silent long enough for Jonathan to disappear inside.

'Spock!' I exclaim, once he's out of earshot. 'Come on! I'm not going to take you with me in future if you're going to blow my cover each time.'

Spock looks embarrassed and I immediately feel bad for scolding him. I get halfway to my feet when Jonathan suddenly reappears at the entrance, breathing heavily, his eyes darting around.

I collapse into my hiding spot again and peep through the gap. My position is only in his peripheral vision so he doesn't notice me. He looks panicked, a far cry from the relaxed demeanour he had seconds earlier.

Jonathan takes out his phone and dials as he strides away from Crazy 8s. I strain to catch his words.

'Hey, man. We've got a problem.' In the quiet of this unknown corner of Cambridge, his voice is loud and clear. But who is he speaking to? There is a pause as he waits for the other person to respond. 'A problem with – with – you know what with! Someone's been around Crazy 8s asking questions…' Another pause. 'The same girl by the sounds of things… yeah, you know the one… I don't know! Ronnie just said she'd shown her your photo. She lied, told this girl she didn't know who you were…'

I sit back in shock and almost lose my grip on Spock's collar.

'Look, meet me over at the hide as soon as you can,' says Jonathan. 'Well, do you have any better ideas?'

He hangs up and walks away, his boots crunching over the loose stones on the tarmac in double quick time. In seconds, he's out of sight. I realise I must make a hasty departure too. I can't stick around here. All I know is the only person Jonathan could have been talking to on the phone is Dylan.

* * *

I pace about my bedroom, sweating anxiously. I'd lost Jonathan barely a minute into the tail. I need Max! I can't tail Jonathan or Dylan without him; not just that, though, I hate to admit it, but he does bolster my confidence when he's around. Even though others don't know he's there, _I_ know, and that's what makes the difference.

Where is he? He's never stayed away this long, and he's never _not_ come when I've needed him. He's meant to be my guide, so why isn't he here, guiding me? I'm forced to concede that maybe Max isn't such a bad guide after all. And I hate to say it, but even though he can be a royal pain in the butt sometimes, I do miss his company.

Spock lies on the Aztec rug by my bed, muzzle on paws, and watches me with an anxious frown. I give him an apologetic look and close my eyes tight. I clench my fists, my bitten nails digging into my palms, and will Max to appear with all my being.

Max doesn't oblige.

I sit down with humph and bend down to stroke Spock's ears. 'Why won't he come?' I whisper.

Deep down I think I know. I've gotten Max into so much trouble lately, maybe the wisers have grounded him or something. I don't know how it's possible to 'ground' a spirit but I assume they have their ways. Or…

I stop breathing at the thought.

Or it could also be because I got Genie Ackroyd's message wrong. But I can't see how I got it wrong. I'm sure I relayed the message just as Freda had said it. Maybe it had been because she'd had rather a strong country accent that I misheard some of it. But I don't see how. Freda had told me where to find the keys and the map then she'd said they led to a shelter she and her husband had used for birdwatching and in the hope of seeing the fabled Fen tiger.

I pull a face and stare up at the ceiling in frustration. I'm sure that was all the message had been. But there's only one way to truly find out, and if this is the reason why Max can't visit me anymore, I'm going to sort this out once and for all.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	17. Red-Handed

**17 – RED-HANDED**

* * *

I knock on Genie Ackroyd's front door and stand back with Spock beside me. I wipe my sweating palms on my jeans and breathe through my nose to calm myself. Genie Ackroyd opens the door and rolls her eyes at the sight of me.

'What do you want?' she says. 'Come to give me another message?'

I ignore the sarcasm in her tone. 'No, I'm here to find out why the last message was wrong.'

Genie frowns at me, still sceptical, but perhaps more lenient. 'You really believe what you're saying, don't you?'

I nod. It's not easy, especially when I know she thinks I should be in a lunatic asylum. 'Most of the time,' I reply.

Genie sighs, her hostility relenting. 'Well, I suppose only half of your message was wrong,' she says.

My ears prick up and I have trouble holding back. 'What does that mean – half?'

Genie shrugs, looking almost annoyed at herself for conceding so. 'The keys and map were right where you said they were, behind the panel in the cupboard. But…' She hesitates, tutting her tongue in annoyance and rolling her eyes.

My heart thuds in my chest. At least fifty percent of the message was right. 'But?' I prompt her.

Her accusing glare is back. 'But when I went there, it obviously belonged to someone else.'

'How so? It's a birdwatching shelter.'

'It's actually more like an old Nissen hut, you know those long round buildings made out of steel they used in the wars? The first time I went the keys didn't fit and the second time I saw people there, inside and out, digging and sprucing the place up.'

'Did you speak to them? Ask them if it was theirs?'

'Of course not,' says Genie, looking disgusted at the notion. 'What was I going to say – that my mother had come back from the dead to tell me this was now my Nissen hut?'

'Well…' To me that doesn't sound like such a bad thing to say – it was true after all, in a non-zombie kind of way.

Genie looks annoyed. 'I don't have time for this. I've got a meeting with the estate agent in twenty minutes.' She moves as if to close the conversation and the door, and once again my desperation spurs me into pleading with her.

'Look, please, I must figure out why the message was wrong. Otherwise –' I'm about to mention Max, but then think twice. She already thinks I'm nuts; using Max as a reason would send her over the edge.

' _You_ go out there then,' she says with a flick of her hand. ' _You_ go ask if the hut is theirs. It would be a stupid question if you ask me, but you don't seem to have a problem with coming across as barking.' Genie tries to close the door.

I reach out to stop her, endangering the lives of my fingers. 'But where is it? I don't know where to find it.'

Genie gives me a sarcastic look. 'You don't know?'

'No.'

'You mean, you know where to find me, where to find the keys, where to find the map, but you don't know where the hut is?'

I shake my head. 'No. The location of the shelter or hut or whatever it is wasn't part of the message. I'm only told what I need to know.'

Genie rolls her eyes again and shakes her head. 'Hold on.'

She walks back into the house and reappears a moment later with an old torn map. 'There. There's the map. It's pointless giving you the keys since they don't work. You go knock on the door and tell them your story.'

She closes the door before I can respond. I look down at the map crumpled in my hands. Unfolding it, I see it's of rural Cambridgeshire. There is a red X in the middle of nowhere, away from any roads, slap bang in the middle of the Fens.

I fold it carefully and turn to Spock. 'You up for some rambling?'

* * *

Spock and I run for the bus and make it just in time. I get a county day-tripper ticket and climb up to the top deck and sit at the front. There's not many people up here so I let Spock sit beside me. He especially enjoys bus rides when he can look out of the window.

The bus makes slow progress out of the congested city, stopping every thirty seconds for traffic or to let on more passengers. As the concrete of the city fades to countryside and the bus speeds up I let my thoughts wander.

Might some opportunistic people have taken on Freda Ackroyd's old birdwatching shelter thinking it had been abandoned? Or – and looking at the vagueness of the map, it wouldn't be unfathomable – could Genie have gone to the wrong place?

We pass through the village of Impington, slowing as we travel along the narrow residential lanes, and I frown. I'm sure this is the place Max said he followed Jonathan to. Or was it Arrington? I see a sign for Oakington and give up. Why do so many of the villages around here sound so similar? In this desperate mindset, I can't be sure what he said.

We lurch through a couple more request stops and head out through more countryside. Oakington comes and goes. Open farmland becomes more wooded. I check Genie's map again. It isn't clear where I have to get off, but I reckon Cottenham is the closest.

I gaze out of the window, watching the sun flicker through the dense line of fir trees on the side of the road. I can't get Max off my mind. I must get him back. I must fix this mistake!

We swing around a sharp bend and the trees become sparser. Then over the treeline a water tower comes into sight.

I gasp as its identity freights trains itself to the forefront of my mind. It is identical to the one from Holly and Dylan's pictures of the cows by the canal. It has to be the same one! Without thinking twice, I slam my palm against the Stop button and the digital sign above the front window pings into life – 'Stopping'.

But it doesn't stop. We pass the water tower and I screw around in my seat to watch it disappear behind the trees. I press the button again, _ping_ , _ping_ , _ping_ , but the bus carries on.

'Wait for the next stop, will ya?' someone yells from the back.

I shrink down in my seat and do as I'm told. We travel on for another couple of minutes, each second taking me further and further away from the water tower. Approaching the outskirts of Cottenham, the bus slows at long last.

I leap from my seat, Spock at my heels, and scuttle down the steep stairwell. But down the bottom, my legs nearly give way with fright as I come face to face with Jonathan also queueing to disembark.

Spock bashes into the back of my legs as I freeze. Jonathan looks equally taken aback. I hold onto the handrail like I'm hanging off a cliff. I don't know what to say to get out of this one.

Jonathan's eyes narrow. 'What a coincidence,' he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear. 'Or perhaps I don't give you enough credit. You're not following me, are you?'

I shake my head dumbly and finally manage a numb, 'No.' It's not a lie. I have no idea when Jonathan boarded the bus. Was he already aboard when I got on?

'Then where are you going?'

'Just – um –' My throat closes up and I have to swallow. 'Just to do a bit of rambling, and all that.' I gesture at Spock behind me like he'll back up my pathetic excuse.

Jonathan shows no sign of believing me. 'Aha. Well, I recommend you ramble some other place,' he says making a walking gesture with two fingers across my eyeline, then after a pause he adds, 'This area is known for its snakes in the grass.'

I nod dumbly. I don't want to be bitten by a 'snake'. At least, not in broad daylight and with my cover blown.

The bus jolts to a stop and I'm jerked forward. I fall against Jonathan and he steps away to avoid touching me. His eyes glitter with malice, and I'm sure the spikes in his hair become sharper.

'I'll just wait for the next stop,' I mumble.

'I've a better idea,' he replies. 'Why don't you and Rex here go on home where it's safe?'

The bus doors fold open and Jonathan steps off without so much as a backward glance.

Heart thundering, I turn and race up the stairs again. Spock doesn't know what the hell is happening and he barks at my desperate behaviour.

'Tell that mutt to shut up, will ya?' shouts the loud mouth from the back.

I ignore it. Keeping low in my seat, I peep over the window. Jonathan stands on the side of the road while the other three people who got off walk away. He is watching for me and waves when I appear, a sinister smile on his lips. It sends chills over my skin.

I sink back in my seat, gasping for breath. I look down at the map, crumpled in my sweating palm. My hands are shaking. I look for the red X, remember Genie's words: 'They were digging outside.'

Could this be Holly's final resting place?

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	18. The Ultimatum

**18 – THE ULTIMATUM**

* * *

I can't sleep. Lying in bed, I roll over again, twisting the sheets around my body, annoying Spock who would be sleeping just fine if it wasn't for my restlessness. I can't stop thinking about my earlier meeting with Jonathan. The menace in his voice and in his eyes. Where was he going? What business did he have out in the middle of the country? Why would he be so threatening over our crossed paths? Was it simply a case of crossed wires too? Or something a lot worse…

I shiver. The curtain blows into my bedroom and a cool breeze tumbles over my hunched shoulders. The next moment I hear the most welcoming voice.

'Good grief, what a drama!'

'Max!' I exclaim, sitting bolt upright in bed. 'Where have you been?'

Max steps forward out of the darkness, but he's still difficult to see. He's fading in and out of sight like a weak signal. His expression is equally worrying.

'Noa, you have to solve Holly's case.'

'I'm trying, you know I am. But –'

I remember Jonathan's threat about snakes in the grass. Bumping into him has really spooked me, I realise. It really brought home the danger I might be in, and I don't particularly like the idea of doing it again any time soon.

'But what?' says Max, his face anxious.

'Well, it's getting a little dangerous, don't you think?' I drop my eyes, ashamed of how cowardly I sound. 'I mean, I know if I don't find Holly I might never get more messages, but I don't know if it's worth risking my life for. I mean, _seriously_ risking my life.'

Max nods stoically and he clasps his hands. 'If that's what you choose, then I'm afraid that – that'll probably be it for me too.'

I stare at him in horror. Can spirits die? What happened to living 'til eternity? 'What do you mean?' I ask.

'Well, my purpose for being your guide is to ensure all messages are delivered and to make sure you…' He comes over and sits on my bed and reaches for my hand. I can feel his cool grasp seep through my palm.

'I what?' I say, narrowing my eyes in suspicion.

'To make sure you're safe. That's all,' Max says, trying to appear offhand, but then his expression changes, he gives me one of his heavy-lidded looks. 'Yours isn't an easy job.'

Panic materialises as anger. 'But – but if your job is to keep me safe then I could've done with a little help today!' I cry. 'I walked straight into Jonathan!'

Max nods, not rising to my indignation. 'I know. That's what I'm trying to tell you.'

He fades and I'm flooded with panic that he's going, that our last words to each other were in anger. He closes his eyes and returns, stronger than before.

I gulp, as once again I'm hit by the enormity of my situation. 'You're really not going to come visit me if I don't solve Holly's case?'

'It won't be because I don't want to. But I – I won't be able to, no.' Max looks at me sadly, his mouth grim, his turned down eyes no longer laughing and mischievous.

'Never?' I whisper.

He shakes his head. 'Never.'

The thought of life without Max fills me with a fiery horror that swirls through my gut and plunges to my feet. 'But you can't do that!'

Max pats my hand and I swear I can feel it.

'It's not up to me. The wisers –'

'You go tell your wisers that I need you!' A ball swells in the back of my throat and I can feel the wobbliness of tears not far away. 'That if I must find Holly I'm going to need your help. I can't do it on my own!'

Max fades further away. 'I have to go, Noa. My energy is just about. Do your best…' He lets go of my hand and stands up. '…And do what's best for you.'

Max fades away completely. The temperature rises to balmy and I look wildly about. Max is gone. Forever?

'Max! Come back! Max!' I don't care if Dad can hear me, I can't let this be the last time I ever see Max.

Spock barks and I throw myself back amongst my pillows. I glare up at the ceiling. It isn't fair! The wisers – whoever they might be – are blackmailing me, making me do things that will endanger my life. This wasn't part of the deal. Don't I already do enough for them?

I growl in erupting frustration, throw the sheets off my bed and get up.

* * *

Minus Spock, I tiptoe to Dad's study. Dad is asleep in his recliner in the living room, the television showing some late night gambling show. I see the empty gin bottle beside Dad and for the first time ever, am glad of its presence. I click closed the study door behind me and feel my way over to the desk. I fumble for the desk lamp switch and turn it on. A glance at the door, listening for Dad. His snores rumble through from the other room, undisturbed.

'Right, Holly Winslow,' I mutter, 'Where are you?'

I flatten out Genie's map on the desk and look at the blotchy black X marking the site of the Ackroyds' Nissen hunt. A shiver rattles through my body. I don't much like the idea of finding a half-decomposed body. Nevertheless, I run my finger along the road from Oakington to Cottenham. I stop about three quarters of the way and mark a spot with one of Dad's pens – an approximate mark of where Jonathan got off the bus. I look up at the corkboard at Farmer Ackerman's case. There are an abundance of evidential photographs of the farm, not just of the burnt out barn, but I can't see any address.

I delve through the desk drawers, looking for more notes on the case, but only find Dad's address book. I flick through and find Farmer Ackerman on the first page of the A's. Kiln Lane Farm, Cottenham. Presumably Kiln Lane Farm must be situated near a Kiln Lane, hopefully. There are places around here that date back to the eleventh century. Road names may change but place names rarely do. I scan Genie's map and my stomach gives a little flip of triumph when I spot Kiln Lane not far from my bus stop biro mark. I make a larger circle encompassing the two X's. As an afterthought I check to see if Dad has the Winslows' address too. He does. They live in Milton, about five miles away from Kiln Lane Farm. Not far for Farmer Ackerman to deliver milk to. Whoever is responsible for Holly's disappearance wouldn't have had far to go to abduct her and stash her body.

I mark the Winslows' approximate address on the map and shove the address book in my pocket.

I stand back and study the four marks on the map – the Ackroyds' Nissen hut, Farmer Ackerman's farm, the bus stop where Jonathan got off, and the Winslows' house. Another shiver runs through me as I recall Genie's words again and it all becomes clear – 'They were digging outside'.

'So, Jonathan,' I murmur, 'you and Dylan decide Holly needs to exit the picture – what did she do? Stumble across a drug dealing business? Threaten to expose you? Jonathan, you're working on the Monday so Dylan, you follow Holly after your Sharp Shooters class, kidnap her, take her to the one place you know she won't be discovered – on your uncle's farm. Then either you or Jonathan, or perhaps both of you, murder her and burn down the barn to cover your crime. You move her body to a nearby deserted Nissen hut and bury her body there…'

I purse my lips as all the clues slot into place. I can't help but wince. 'Right, Holly, let's go get you.'

As I'm about to turn out the light, I pause, my attention caught by one of the images on the corkboard: the smoking charred wreck of the barn. It must have been some fire. My breath catches in my throat and I fumble for my phone. I tap through to my emails and wait impatiently for them to load. I open up the picture I bought at Sharp Shooters – 'Night Blaze'. I look, wide-eyed from my phone to the corkboard and back again.

'But…' I don't understand.

I furiously try to work out in my head when Holly went missing to when the photo was taken to the time of the blaze. I'd presumed before that Holly had taken the photo on the Sunday night at the latest and submitted it on the Monday, the day she'd gone missing. But the fire at Farmer Ackerman's only happened on the Wednesday!

'Which means…' My mouth falls open as a new possibility enters my head. 'Oh my God.'

I switch off the light and make for the door as quickly as I dare. I'm going to need my hiking boots for this mission.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	19. Hide

**19 – HIDE**

* * *

The deserted streets are illuminated a pearlescent gold by the street lights. My breath is loud in my ears as I pedal furiously out of the city. A car zooms up behind me, casting my long wobbly shadow on the road ahead. It honks its horn then overtakes. My bike judders as we're buffered by the car's wake turbulence, nearly sending me into the ditch. My lungs and my leg muscles burn but I can't let up.

Soon, the lights become more sparse. The road darkens and I become more reliant on the feeble light of my bicycle lamp. It's dark and lonely out here and I wish I had Max with me. Or Spock even, although he'd probably blow my cover like usual.

At last, I slow. My legs stop screaming with pain as I pull up at the Cottenham bus stop. Still astride my bike, I pause to catch my breath and to find my bearings. I look around. It's a full moon, but it still feels very dark out here. Obviously city people need more light than country people. Through a gap in the trees I see Kiln Lane Farm's water tower gleaming in the moonlight. I rummage through my rucksack squashed into my bicycle basket and pull the map out. Using my bicycle lamp as a torch I trace my finger from the X at Kiln Lane Farm to the red X of Genie's Nissen hut.

I look up in its approximate direction and take a deep breath. 'I'm coming, Holly.'

Tucking the map away, I lean forward and switch off my bicycle headlamp then set off pedalling again into the darkness.

* * *

I've cycled only a couple of minutes more when I have to refer to the map again. I can see a lane up ahead but on the map the Nissen hut is before it. I look around, but the moon has gone behind a cloud and all I can see is countryside, dark forested countryside. I ditch my bicycle in some bushes and set off on foot.

The ground is mushy underfoot from a recent downpour but thick with underbrush and soon my boots and jeans are saturated. I creep through the trees, winding my way between the silvery trunks, hearing the fear in my own hoarse breath. Unless I've gone wildly off-course I should be at the hut by now.

Then I see it.

Instinctively I slip behind a tree, and dart a quick look around. No one's about, it's just me. Crouching down, I peer through the undergrowth at the Nissen hut. It stands in a small clearing amongst thick fir trees. It's just as Genie described it, moonlight streams through the trees and highlights the curved corrugated steel shell.

I can't help looking at the ground around the hut for disturbed earth, for Holly's grave, but it's impossible to tell anything from this distance. I notice a small window partly overgrown with ivy and creepers in the side of the hut, a blind pulled down, from behind which a dim light seeps out. I catch my breath as a shadow passes the window and I instinctively crouch lower. I wonder if the impossible might be true.

Suddenly, there's a snap of twigs to my right and I almost leap out of my skin. A rush of someone thundering through the overgrowth. I cower back, shielding my face as a shadow hurtles towards me. At the last second it changes course and gallops off, the graceful leaping of a deer.

I exhale and try to recompose myself. My heart thrashes about in my throat and I try to gulp it down. I so wish Max was here with me right now. I look around at the hut again. I can't be sure who it is inside. Is it one person or two, maybe even three? If I take them by surprise, I might have the advantage against one person, two would be pushing it, three I should really rethink my limitations.

 _I need back-up though_. That much I now realise. I pull my phone out and crouch lower so the light of my phone doesn't attract any attention. I dial Dad's number.

It rings and rings and finally goes to voicemail.

'Crap. Come on, Dad,' I mutter.

I dial again, and again it goes to voicemail. How drunk is he? Or has he recovered from passing out in the living room and stumbled to bed, leaving his phone behind?

I try a couple more times, urging it ring louder, to wake him, to wake Spock even. Okay, maybe waking Spock won't make a difference. He's never answered my phone before so there's no reason he'll suddenly become Lassie now. Finally, I'm forced to just leave a whispered message. I hang up and try to think. Who else could I call? I mean, who else could I _realistically_ call? I can't go to the police. Even if they believed me, the Winslows didn't want them involved – _the Winslows_!

My hand instinctively pats my jeans and sure enough I can feel Dad's address book that I pocketed in his study through the denim.

The Winslows number keyed in, I wait while it rings. My heart gives a stupid jump when it's answered by Henry Winslow.

'Hello?' His voice is crusty with sleep.

I try to keep my voice as low as possible, but the stakes are so high, my adrenalin is pumping so hard, that I'm having a hard time not squeaking.

'Hello, Mr Winslow? It's Noa Drury.'

'Who?'

'Noa Drury.' I peek through the bushes again to make sure no one has come out of the hut. 'My dad was working on your daughter's case?'

'Oh – um – hello,' Mr Winslow sounds surprised and I can imagine him scratching his thin pillow-messy hair. 'What – why are you calling here? What time is it?'

I try to keep my voice steady and grip the phone with both my hands. 'I think I've found Holly,' I whisper.

'What? Where?' Mr Winslow's voice is suddenly wide awake.

'Ssh! I'm in – actually it's a bit complicated to explain. Near Cottenham.' I bite my lip. I hadn't thought this bit through. I've no idea how to give him directions to get here. I don't even know what road the bus stop was on and that feels miles away already. 'I know, I'll send you the co-ordinates,' I say, remembering the navigation app on my phone.

'Are you with her? Is she all right?' Henry rushes.

My feelings towards Mr Winslow soften. He does sound so genuinely concerned. 'I don't know yet. I'm still outside. I'll send you the co-ordinates now, okay? Look for an old Nissen hut.'

'Fine. I'm on my way.'

Mr Winslow hangs up and I take a moment to co-ordinate my position and send it to his mobile phone. The message goes through and I put my phone away. I look over at the hut and take a deep breath.

* * *

As carefully as my wobbly legs will allow, I creep through the undergrowth, unsnagging my clothes from the thorns as I go. The foliage diminishes, the twigs stop crackling underfoot and suddenly I'm in the clearing. I pause and look around, feeling terribly exposed. Heart pounding in my mouth, I sneak closer until I can reach out and feel the cold damp steel beneath my fingers. I peep through a gap between the window and the blind.

Jonathan is there.

He's moving around. At first he is all I can see then he moves towards the door and I glimpse someone else, someone with wild red hair sitting on a camp bed.

I gasp, but before I can compute what I've just seen, the door of the hut bursts open, letting out a dim shaft of electric light. I duck down and take cover along the side of the hut where the ivy is thick.

'See you in a minute,' I hear Jonathan say. 'Don't go anywhere.'

Not daring to breathe, I watch the light shaft shrink as the door is closed, then footsteps stamp through the undergrowth.

The back of Jonathan's black spikes are highlighted by the moon riding overhead. He walks quickly away, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, jogging every few steps.

The light in the hut remains on. I wait for Jonathan to disappear from view before rising out of my hiding place. I peep through the window again. This _has_ to be Holly Winslow. It can't be anyone else.

But then how was I able to see Holly's spirit? Did she die and come back? Was it some sort of Herculean cry for help that enabled me to see the spirit of a _living_ person? Whatever. I don't have time to figure out the whys and wherefores. Jonathan had said he would be back in a minute. I have to work fast.

I hurry around to the front and gingerly open the door. It's a noisy door though. Holly's the only person inside, and for a kidnapping hide, the hut feels awfully cosy. She's busy moving a gas burner to the side. She hears me but doesn't look around.

'What have you forgotten this time?' she says, her back to me.

I close the door and rush over to her. 'Holly? Holly Winslow?'

Holly yelps in surprise and jumps back from my touch. The gas burner falls over, knocking over a box with mugs on it.

She tries to scramble backwards, to escape, but I grab her by the shoulders and wrestle her to a stop on the camp bed. She stares at me, eyes wider than a deer in the headlights.

'Who are you? What do you want?'

'My name is Noa.' I use the voice saved for my traumatised and grieving message recipients. 'I've come to rescue you.'

I frown to myself. Even to my ears that sounds corny.

'Rescue me?' echoes Holly. 'Who – what – have you got an ark sitting outside or something? Where have you come from?'

'It's okay. I'm a friend. My dad's a PI, he was hired to find you. I just got here quicker. Help is on the way but we've got to get out of here before Jonathan gets back.'

'What? Why?' Holly doesn't look in the least bit reassured. Perhaps she's got that weird Scandinavian syndrome thing, what was it? Stockholm Syndrome, that's right, where you grow attached to your kidnapper.

'It's okay, Holly. You're safe now. You can go home. Help is coming.'

'Help? Help like who?'

'Your dad?' I don't really want to tell her that her parents never got the police involved.

'Oh my God,' says Holly, looking so horrified even her freckles seem to pale. 'What have you done?'

I hesitate. This really wasn't what I was expecting. If Max were here, he'd at least tell me if I was imagining Holly acting weirdly. 'I – I'm saving you. Jonathan and Dylan kidnapped you. We thought you were dead.'

Holly scuttles back again. 'They didn't kidnap me!' she hisses. 'They were _helping_ me!'

I hesitate, thoughts rejumbled in my head, scrambling for a fresh solution. 'But – but you'd disappeared – the fire at Ackerman's, your necklace was found in the ashes, the burns on Jonathan's arms, he and Dylan plotting –' I babble out all the clues that had led me here, but all Holly does is shake her head in despair.

'No! No! The fire at Mr Ackerman's was _my_ fault. I knocked the candle over and it just got out of control. I was trapped until Jonathan saved me.'

 _Jonathan saved her_? My mind boggles at this new turn of events. 'But – but what about Jonathan and Eyra. They're –' I clamp my mouth shut, not wanting to upset her further with tales of her cheating boyfriend.

Holly looks unimpressed. 'No, they're not. Eyra might like to think they are, but they're not.'

'But I –' I stop myself again, for the first time noticing the sweet smell of perfume in the stuffy air of the hut. It's the same as Eyra's, in which case that make-up bag in Jonathan's bathroom might very well have been Holly's.

Holly misinterprets my hesitation. 'The fire was _my_ fault, not Jonathan's.'

'But what were you doing there?' I ask in astonishment.

'Getting away,' she says through clenched teeth. 'I wasn't going to stay there for long, but things have just – I don't know, they haven't gone the way we planned!'

'So you _did_ run away then? I don't understand. Why?'

Holly holds her head in her hands, letting her hair fall around her like lava streams, then she looks up at me with panic in her eyes.

'You told my dad? Does he know where I am?'

I look uncertainly at Holly. Now that's she's regained some colour to her cheeks, she has a lot more freckles than when I was visited by her spirit in the garden. I gulp. Maybe it was the different lighting.

'Yeah?' I say, really not knowing if Mr Winslow knowing is such a great thing anymore. I'm not sure of anything anymore.

'Oh God. We've got to go. He'll kill us.'

I reach out a hand to reassure her. 'I'm sure he'll be fine. Honestly, he just wants you back home safe and sound. You don' know how worried your parents have been.

'My parents?' Holly exclaims. 'You have no idea who my parents are or what they're capable of! I'm not exaggerating. _He is going to kill us_.'

I'm so dumbfounded that I'm slow to react to Holly jumping to her feet. But she grabs my wrist and drags me with her.

'Wait,' I gasp. 'What are you doing?'

' _We_ have got to get out of here. You're in as much danger as me now.'

'From your dad? Come on, Holly. Don't you think you might be overreacting just a little bit?'

I stumble behind her to the door where she spins around and points at me. 'Overreacting? Do you even know what they did? Of course you don't, you naïve fool!'

'Hey, hang on just a minute,' I say, more than a little put out that she's being so ungrateful. 'I'm trying to help you here –'

'Well, you're not. You've just put us in even more danger. Why couldn't you just mind your own business?'

Anger creeps into the fear that Holly is installing in my heart. 'Because I was visited by a spirit that I was led to believe was _you_.' I'm so angry I don't even care if she thinks I'm mad. 'I know that probably makes me seem insane to you, but it's a gift, a psychic gift, that I have. And I wasn't allowed to – allowed to move on with my life until I'd found you.' I think of Max and how he'd react to this glorious mess I now find myself in. 'You were lost! You needed help! That is what you said!'

Holly looks at me, indeed as if I'm insane. 'I'm not the one who needs help.'

'Trust me, all this time I've been expecting to find a dead body. I don't understand how I could've been visited by your spirit if you're still alive.'

'Yeah, still alive and not wanting any help from – oh, holy crap.' Holly's eyes turn from accusing to horrified.

'What? What's holy crap? Can you hear someone coming? What is it?'

She looks at me, a little more trusting, still wary. 'You're telling the truth? You can see dead people?'

I cringe. 'Not like in The Sixth Sense of anything, but yes, "I can see dead people".'

Holly rummages through a bag on the floor and pulls out a crumpled photograph. 'Was this who you saw?'

I look at the photo. It's of Holly – but then I look closer, notice subtle differences, less freckles, slimmer face, different smile.

Holly taps the photo and swallows hard. 'My sister, Georgia.'

I stare at her. As far as I know, Holly is an only child. 'Y-you have a s-sis-sister?'

' _Had_ a sister. She's dead.'

I look again, realising that what Holly is implying is correct. It wasn't Holly who visited her that night in the rain at all. It was Georgia Winslow. _Georgia_ wanted help, not Holly. Then I remember how she had been as wet as I was, standing in the rain, how I'd just presumed she was being rained on too. But what about Max? How he never got wet when we were caught in the rain? How I always see him dressed in dirty breeches and boots, the same clothes he wore when he died. If Georgia had been wet when she died…

'She drowned, didn't she?' I say.

Holly nods with difficulty. 'But not by accident,' she says, her words clipped and pained. 'She was murdered.'

I stare at her. No wonder the Winslows didn't want to tell us about another daughter. 'Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry.'

Holly's mouth tightens in annoyance. 'So you should be because you've gone and told her _killer_ where we are.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	20. Seek

**20 – SEEK**

* * *

'Your _dad_ killed your _sister_?' I ask in incredulity.

'Yes, and because we know, what do you think he's going to do with us now?' says Holly.

'Crap, come one. Let's get out of here. He's going to be here any minute.'

Light extinguished, we step outside the hut. A crunch of footsteps not far away makes us freeze.

'Jonathan? Is that you?' Holly calls out. Her voice wavers with nerves.

But instead comes the reedy voice of Mr Winslow. 'Holly? Holly?'

'Crap!' I clutch Holly's wrist and drag her down as a torch swings our way.

'We have to hide!' hisses Holly.

I look around the clearing – there's nowhere to hide except in the trees. Hunched over, we run to a thicket behind the hut and take cover. My heart is hammering like a thunder drum and by the looks of Holly's face, so is hers. It's all I can do to quiet my breathing. It sounds horribly loud in the quiet of the night.

'Time to come out now, Holly,' Mr Winslow calls.

He steps into the clearing, swinging his torch around. We duck again as the beam swings across us. Mr Winslow walks up to the hut, his footsteps cautious but confident. He shines the torch inside for a moment and finding it empty walks around the hut.

Holly's grip on my hand tightens as we watch through the mesh of twigs and leaves her father's legs move closer to our position. Ten feet away, he stops.

'No more games, Holly,' he says. 'All I want to do is talk, to explain. Let's straighten this whole thing out.' His voice is surprisingly gentle. It entices us to believe him, to trust him. 'Holly?' His voice is quieter, more chilling, and I hold my breath.

Has he spotted us?

'It's all been one big misunderstanding.' He's so close, it feels like he's talking directly to us, knows where we are. I try to quell my breathing, but Holly's is coming in short angry rasps.

'You killed Georgia, you – you _scum_! What's there to misunderstand?' Holly exclaims and I clamp my hand over her mouth.

But it's too late. Mr Winslow steps closer.

'Holly?'

The torch beam swings in our direction and Mr Winslow's footsteps quicken.

I stare at his approach in horror. We have to move. But to where? Apart from this thicket of trees, we are surrounded by open farmland and countryside, flat and exposed. Then I have an idea.

I grab Holly's hand. 'Quick!'

We break away from our cover, ignoring Mr Winslow's shout to stop, and sprint through the trees.

* * *

The ground is uneven, full of twisted tree roots and vines ready to trip us up. It isn't long before Holly loses her footing and tumbles to the ground. I drag her up and dare look behind.

Mr Winslow's torch beam jumps from side to side, flashing over the tree trunks around us. He crashes through the undergrowth like a charging elephant.

'Noa!' he shouts in a breathless gasp. 'I know you're there! You're with Holly! Believe me! This is a misunderstanding. A _big_ misunderstanding. You know I only want my daughter back.'

We don't wait around to chat. We set off running again, running blind through the darkness, tripping and stumbling. A branch whips me across the face. My cheek stings like somebody's slapped me and my eyes water.

Suddenly we break free from the thicket. The moon is bright and bathes the surrounding field of what looks like carrot stalks. All neat, straight rows like miniature hedges. No place to take cover. I dart a look around to find the landmark I'm after, taking a moment to refill my lungs with the muggy air.

'You don't believe him, do you?' Holly gasps beside me, misconstruing my sudden halt.

I spot what I'm looking for on the horizon, gleaming in the moonlight. 'I always thought there was something iffy about your parents not wanting the police involved. Come on!' I pull Holly after me as I set off running again through the field.

Racing through the crop, hurdling the rows of carrots, my lungs and throat burn like a dragon's sore throat. Mr Winslow is still in pursuit, can see exactly where we are, but he's obviously not very fit. Having said that, neither is Holly by the looks of things and I doubt whether she can carry on much longer.

* * *

We reach the end of the field and almost fall into one of the Fens' hidden canals. The grassy banks are steep and it's difficult to tell how deep it is, but looking both ways there doesn't appear to be anywhere to cross.

'Come on,' I gasp. Grabbing Holly's hand, I slide down the bank, catching my arm on a sharp rock, tearing my jeans. We land with a splash into the dark sludgy water. It's only a couple of feet deep and is easy enough to cross, but by the time we've clambered to the other side we're both soaked.

Our wet clothing does nothing to help our cause. We turn up a dirt track that runs parallel to the canal. Our panting and squelching shoes fills the silence. Slowly, the dark shapes of Kiln Lane Farm's outbuildings grow bigger. The smell of cattle hangs in the clear night air.

There's a splash behind us as Mr Winslow navigates the canal and we fall against a sturdy wooden fence in exhaustion.

Holly and I stare at each other, gasping for breath. I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack. Holly's face shines with sweat in the moonlight and her red hair clings damp to her head.

'Help me,' she rasps and I realise she's totally spent. But those words bring back the desperation in Georgia's voice that night she visited. This is far from over.

I grab Holly's arm and we duck under the fence. It is muddy and full of small churned up craters. There is a squelchy stampede of hooves, and indignant mooing and I realise we're in the same enclosure as Farmer Ackerman's dairy herd.

I hesitate for a moment. It's not a particularly large field and I don't much like cows. I certainly don't fancy the idea of coming face to face with an angry bull. But neither do I fancy the idea of coming face to face with a murderous Mr Winslow.

I look behind. Mr Winslow's torch beam bounces a short way behind. We have no option but to risk going through the field of cattle.

We run on over the uneven muddy ground. Thankfully the large sinister shadows of the cattle move away, clustering in one corner of the pen. Suddenly Holly stumbles and cries out. I pull her to her feet, but she screams in pain.

'My ankle! I've twisted it.'

I throw another look over my shoulder. Our pursuant is gaining on us. In the opposite direction the dark shapes of Farmer Ackerman's outbuildings are temptingly close. 'But we can't stop.'

'I can't run!' Holly's voice is as indignant as it is panicked.

I pull her arm over my shoulders and sling mine around her waist. 'Hold on to me.'

Together we hop across towards the gate to the farm yard, Holly whimpering and sucking her teeth but being exceptionally brave considering the pain she's in. But our progress is slow and Mr Winslow's hoarse breathing grows ever closer. We're not going to make it.

I undrape Holly's arm and prop her up against a fence post. 'Wait here.'

'Wait!' She reaches out to stop me, but I'm already running. Summoning all my courage, I run along the edge of the field to where the cattle have gathered, dark foreboding shapes pushing and stamping, mooing for more room.

I wave my arms and yell at them. There is a moment of chaos as the herd takes fright. I know that, in their panic, they might charge straight at me, but I keep running forward, yelling as loud as my wrung out lungs will allow. The cows break free and stampede back across the field towards Mr Winslow.

I see the bobbing torch beam pause then hastily change direction.

I return to Holly and find her still clinging to the fence, gasping for breath.

'Come on,' I say, and help her under the fence. 'Recognise this place?'

Holly looks around. 'There's nowhere to hide here,' she says, her voice shrill. 'It'll all be locked.'

My heart drops as I rattle the large corrugated steel door of the closest barn. It is locked, just as she said it would be, with a huge industrial padlock.

'I can't go much further.' Holly is half-crying as she leans against me. 'My ankle.'

I reaffirm my grip on her waist and try to take more of her weight. My legs are beginning to give out from fatigue as well. 'Hang in there.'

The second outbuilding is also locked.

There is a piercing whine behind and I look back to see Mr Winslow letting himself through the cattle pen squeaky gate. I turn again to the chained lock on the barn door. It's cold, damp and heavy to the touch. I've never tried to pick an industrial-sized padlock before.

I glance at the shadowed and muddy ground for random bits of wire, and dig into my pockets, not particularly hopeful. My heart gives a silly little leap as my fingers curl around the paperclip I used to pick the filing cabinet lock in Dad's study.

I get to work on the lock. It is tougher than anything I've tried before. The paperclip isn't strong enough and my hands are trembling so much I can't find the hook on the lock mechanism inside.

'Holly!' Mr Winslow yells, his voice exhausted. 'Let's finish this charade now.'

I dart a look back. He's slowed to a walk, trudging up the muddy track from the cattle enclosure.

Suddenly the paperclip clicks and like the gates of heaven opening up, the padlock comes apart. I rattle the chain through the hole cut through the corrugated steel door and open it. Gone is the time for stealth.

Inside it's dark and cavernous and smells of mouldy hay and chickens. I glance over my shoulder to check Mr Winslow's progress.

'You hide in here,' I tell Holly. 'I'm going to create a diversion.'

'No, wait!' says Holly as I untangle myself from her grasp. 'Don't leave me!'

I shove her inside and slam the door shut. Fingers shaking and weak, I slam the bolts shut and padlock it again.

I step away from the barn, my heart slamming against my chest. 'Come on, this way!' I call out. 'Hurry, Holly!'

I set off at a run further into the farm yard, hoping Mr Winslow will follow me. I look back over my shoulder and stumble. I land heavily, roll; the rubble that has been compacted into a rough road digs into my shoulder, my back, my hip. I lie there for a moment, partly winded, and crawl onto my stomach. In the shadows I can just make out Mr Winslow stopping at the barn. He pushes the door, rattles the lock. I breathe a sigh of relief. He can't get in.

I force oxygen into my lungs. 'Come on, Holly!' I try to fool him one more time.

The rattling stops. I know he's looking my way.

'Come on… Holly!' I gasp again.

Another pause then a bright flash of light and an almighty bang that ricochets around the farmyard. I slam my face into the stony mud, my ears ringing. Mr Winslow has a gun!

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016


	21. Trapped

**21 – TRAPPED**

* * *

I scramble for the cover of a pile of tractor tyres, not caring anymore whether it's mud or cow excrement I'm dragging myself through.

Peeping around the corner though, I realise he wasn't aiming at me. He's blown off the barn padlock. He pushes the barn door open and steps in, out of sight. My heart almost stops with dread. Injured, exposed and trapped, Holly has no chance to flee.

I scramble to my feet again, unsure what to do. I look around, searching for Farmer Ackerman's house. The gunshot has set a dog barking frantically, but I can't see where. Cows low and chickens chuckle at the disturbance but no human voice calls out. Do I go for help?

I look back at the barn. The vast door stands ominously open, a black space where Mr Winslow and Holly face off against one another. If I go for help now, it'll be too late for Holly.

I hurry back towards the barn, slowing as I approaching, muting my step. I can hear Mr Winslow's and Holly's voices coming from within.

* * *

Taking care to not make a sound, I peep around the open doorway. A torch beam highlights Holly cowering behind a pile of rotten roof beams and old horse rugs. Clear on her face in the stark glare of light is fear and anger. As my eyes adjust I see Mr Winslow standing in the middle of the barn, gun and torch raised.

'Come now, Holly,' Mr Winslow says, his voice so alluring and gentle it sends a shiver down my spine. 'Things have been blown wildly out of proportion, haven't they? Why would I kill Georgia? I know suicide is tough to understand, but it is what happened.'

'Crap!' exclaims Holly. 'Georgia didn't commit suicide. You drowned her!'

Mr Winslow sighs and shakes his head. 'If only you hadn't stuck your nose where it doesn't belong, we wouldn't be here now.'

I look around and spot a Jenga jumble of old planks piled next to the barn wall. I silently lift one off the top and try it for size. It's not too heavy but solid enough to make an impact. I tiptoe back to the barn, my knees quaking at the prospect of entering.

Mr Winslow and Holly are much too caught up in their confrontation to notice me though. Mr Winslow has partly turned his back to me.

'I wasn't sticking my nose into anything!' says Holly. 'I was simply taking long exposure shots of the back yard at night. Then Georgia's body is found floating in the river down the bottom.' Her voice catches and she pauses. 'And everyone just presumes she's committed suicide. Oh, her mother's a manic depressive, so she must be too! Well, she wasn't! Then I saw what you did! Even if you kill me too, you'll still be found out. It's all on record.'

'Is that so?' Mr Winslow's voice is icily calm. He's certainly not denying the accusation.

'It's all on the memory card. All the proof.'

'But you don't have the memory card anymore, do you?' Mr Winslow counters and Holly hesitates.

'It –'

I tread lightly on the barn's earthen floor, feeling the walls closing in on me, trapping me, the further I enter. I creep across to a row of wooden pillars that line each side of the barn to support the upper level.

'When Noa so kindly called me and told me where you were,' Mr Winslow goes on, 'I was puzzled at first why you'd stayed so close to home, why you hadn't gone to the police with your allegations.' He laughs a little. 'And then it occurred to me. You don't have the evidence you claim to have, do you?'

I pause in my approach, genuinely wanting to find out the whole story before I ambush him.

'That burglary we had the other day was you, wasn't it?' he continues. 'You were trying to get this memory card you speak of. What happened? Couldn't you find it?'

'I – I didn't – it was friends.' Holly looks reluctant to carry on. 'They were looking for the back-up. I _had_ the original, but it was burnt in the fire. But I'd hid the back-up so well because I was afraid you were going to find it that they couldn't find it either.'

I step closer, intrigued by their dawning confessions. I can hear Mr Winslow breathing, see him readjust his hold on the handgun.

'How do you know I haven't already found it?' he asks. 'Maybe _that_ was why your friends were unsuccessful.'

Holly narrows her eyes at him. 'Because if that was the case, I'd be dead by now. The only reason I'm still alive is because there's proof floating around somewhere of your crimes…'

Gripping the plank tightly I lift it up high above my head.

'…and sooner or later you're going to have to pay for it –' Holly pauses as she catches sight of me behind her father.

Her reaction is enough to alert Mr Winslow's attention. He turns just as I'm about to bring the plank down on his head. Instead it strikes his shoulder and tumbles out of my hands.

With a muffled grunt, Mr Winslow is quick to recover. He swings the torch and I cry out as it crashes into my cheek, rattling my teeth, sending pain shooting through my cheekbone and eye socket. I fall to the ground and Mr Winslow kicks dirt in my face.

'Get over there, you sneaky rat! Go on!'

Mindful that the gun is now pointed at my head, I scramble over to the front of the pile of horse rugs and rotten beams. I'm sure the look of dread written on Holly's face is mirrored on mine.

'Come out from behind there, Holly, so I can see you both properly,' her father commands.

She doesn't move.

'Move, or I'll shoot your little friend here.'

He turns the torch on me and the glaring light blinds me. I know the gun is pointed at me now, but I'm thankful I can't see down the muzzle.

Holly limps out from behind the pile. She reaches out to hold my hand. Both of us are shaking so much, it takes a moment for our fingers to untangle and get a grip. Little though it be, it does feel better being in this together.

'There,' says Mr Winslow. 'Sit down. You too, Miss Drury.'

Holly awkwardly lowers herself to the dirty ground, her twisted foot stretched out in front, and I join her. Mr Winslow lowers the beam marginally and I get a better glimpse of his face. He looks but makes no comment on Holly's injury. A smeary smile soils his mouth.

'You think you're so clever, don't you?' he says. 'Thinking you can outsmart me? Naïve fanciful little children, arrogant teenagers who always think they know better than adults. I don't need to know where that stupid memory card is, Holly. By the time it is found, we'll all be long gone.'

He clicks back the hammer on the gun and moves his aim between me and Holly. My breath catches in my throat. I'm seriously not ready to die right now and I doubt Holly is either.

'So,' says Mr Winslow in a soft voice. 'Which of you wants to go first?'

My heart beats out of my chest. I don't want to die, but I'm also out of options. Nobody knows where we are, nobody is coming to the rescue. Then I remember something.

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists until my nails dig painfully into my palms. Mr Winslow chuckles.

'It's a bit late for praying now, Noa. Although, before I shoot you, I would first like to thank you for tracking down my rather recalcitrant daughter. You have been most helpful.'

I hear his voice, sounding so polite like he's thanking the Queen for her invitation to tea. But I ignore him. My eyes remain tightly closed. The air remains hot and muggy.

'Come on, Max,' I whisper under my breath. 'Help me out here.'

The faintest of cool breezes flutters through the gaping doorway, so faint no one else notices it. Then suddenly an angry gust slams the door closed. The sound echoes around the empty space. Mr Winslow gets such a fright the gun goes off. A bullet slams into the pile of horse rugs above mine and Holly's heads, sending up a cloud of dust.

The air becomes thin and icy cold like the seasons have been turned upside down. Mr Winslow stumbles sideways. He swings the gun and torch around but only lights up the dull wooden walls of the barn. I catch the swirl of a spirit in the darkness and my heart leaps.

'Max?' I say.

'Who?' says Holly, looking confused and frightened.

'Max, is that you?'

The spirit sends Mr Winslow reeling again and he fires again, spinning around to catch his attacker. But the spirit is too fast. It's not Max though; it's someone with long straight black hair and long flowing clothes.

'Where are you?' Mr Winslow shouts, his voice shrill.

'Noa!' I hear Max yell from the far end of the barn. 'Over here!'

I squirm around. I've never been so pleased to see anyone in my life. 'Max!'

He's gesturing frantically for us to join him.

I glance at Mr Winslow. He looks terrified, whirling around, trying to locate the person who keeps shoving him. His torch beam flails wildly around, lighting up slumbering roof beams and piles of abandoned machinery. His attention is so caught up, he appears to have completely forgotten about us.

'Where are you? _What_ are you?' Mr Winslow cries.

A second unknown spirit has joined the first and between them, they are keeping Mr Winslow busy.

'What's happening?' cries Holly, her voice high with fear.

I freeze as I recognise one of the spirits.

'Noa!' Max shouts.

I drag my eyes away from the spirit, and refocus. I grab Holly's hand and clamber to my feet. 'Come on, this is our chance.'

Holly cries out in pain and I do my best to support her, but we can't hang around any longer.

'Sorry, but we have to go. Come on!'

With Holly leaning against me, we limp over to Max who is gesticulating wildly to a small side doorway at the back that I hadn't yet spotted. It's bolted from the inside, but not locked. I tease the rusty bolts free. They resist for a moment then clang back.

'Hey!' shouts Mr Winslow, finally noticing our escape.

Another shot rings out, loud in the enclosed space and Holly and I fall through the open doorway back into the fresh air of the farm yard.

I'm not shot, and a quick look at Holly assures she isn't either.

Max is quickly beside me. 'Noa, are you okay? Hurry!'

'Boy, am I glad to see you,' I mutter.

His concerned expression abates for just a second, and I recognise the old teasing look in his eyes. He will probably remind me of those words sometime in the future when I'm less grateful of his presence.

'What? Who are you talking to?' says Holly, but she doesn't wait for an answer. 'Look!' She points to lights bouncing in the distance, on the other side of the farmyard.

'Hurry, Noa!' says Max, looking back into the barn. 'He's coming after you.'

'Come on,' I say, getting to my feet again. 'We're nearly there.'

We stumble onwards into the exposed farmyard. I hear a yell from behind us and look to see Mr Winslow running like a mad thing towards us. He shoots another four rounds at us, aiming wildly, missing his target.

I look to the lights approaching from the other end. They are getting closer, raised voices calling our names, but Mr Winslow will get to us before help does.

'Over here!' yells Max.

Following his lead, we duck behind a shed and I spot some old PVC piping lying in the shadows. I pick one up. It's a bit big to get a good grip on it, but it's swingable. I press myself up against the corner of the shed and wait. Max steps into the open, looking more ghostly than ever with the moonlight shining down on him, glancing off his cheekbones, shadowing the serious set to his jaw. He holds up his palm to me.

'When I say it,' he says, not taking his eyes off Mr Winslow. 'Ready… ready… _ready_!' His voice rises with each word.

'Now!'

I swing with all my might and catch Mr Winslow smartly in the face. He goes down with a yelp of pain and I dive for his gun.

Rolling and coming up on my knees, I point it at him. The gun weighs more than I expected it too. It feels ungainly and unfamiliar in my hands and I have trouble aiming it and keeping my finger on the trigger at the same time. I slowly climb to my feet, the gun slipping in my sweating hands.

Mr Winslow recovers from the hit and looks up at me, his eyes wild, his mouth and nose bleeding.

'Put the gun down, Noa,' he says. 'There's a good girl.'

'No!' I inhale sharply as my finger trembles against the trigger.

The shouts of people approaching are reassuringly close, but then I look at Mr Winslow, just feet away, evil and dangerous, too close.

Mr Winslow raises his hands marginally and I take a wobbly step back. I don't want to get too close in case he makes a dive at me. On the other hand I don't want to get too far away in case it affects my aim – that is if I can find it in me to even pull the trigger. My knees are trembling so bad, I can barely stand.

'Easy, Noa,' Max murmurs beside. I dart a quick glance at him. His face is deadly serious, his eyes wide and intense, flicking from me to the gun shaking in my hands.

Then I hear a familiar voice shout out above the commotion, 'Noa? Noa? Are you there?'

'Dad!' I exclaim, distracted by the welcome sound of my father's voice. 'Dad, over here –'

'Noa, watch out!' Max reaches forward to intervene, but it's too late.

Mr Winslow dives at me and grabs my ankles and pulls them from under me. I go down like a ninepin, completely taken by surprise. The gun flies out of my hand. I kick at Mr Winslow's hands holding my legs, at his body, anything to push away from him. His fingers dig into my legs as he pulls me back.

There's a moment of panic as we both scramble for the weapon. Mr Winslow strikes out and catches me on the ear. I hit the dirt again, my brain consumed by the intense fiery pain in my ear.

'Look out, Noa!' Max yells.

Mr Winslow, on his hands and knees, falls on the gun and turns to point it at me.

'Noa!' Max yells, and I can hear the fear in his voice.

It soaks through me like an icy rain and I stare down the barrel of the gun. Then out of nowhere a large black boot kicks the gun out of Mr Winslow's hands. I gasp and fall backwards. I recognise the dark spikes shining in the moonlight of Jonathan Kilpin as he throws himself on Mr Winslow. There's a ghastly thump as knuckles connect with flesh, again and again.

'You son of a –'

'Stop!' an authoritative voice shouts out. 'Stop right there! Police!'

Half a dozen policemen appear, their torches all beamed in on us. Jonathan and Mr Winslow pause momentarily in their struggle. Jonathan lets fly with one last punch and grounds a groaning Mr Winslow for good.

The police move in. They yank Jonathan to his feet.

'Don't hurt him!' Holly says, crawling out of the shadows. 'He was helping us!'

'Don't worry, miss,' says the policeman. 'We know whose side he's on.' With Jonathan out of the way, they roll Mr Winslow onto his stomach and jerk his arms behind his back and clip on a pair of handcuffs.

'Noa!' yells Dad. 'Where are you?' He appears, jacket flying, pushing through the ring of policemen.

'Dad!'

I clamber to my feet and collapse into his arms. Dad holds me so close I can barely breathe. All I hear is his panicked gasps.

'Oh, Noa.'

Finally, his grip on me relents.

'How did you know where to find us?' I ask.

Dad swallows and pulls himself together. I've never seen him so shaken. 'My phone. I got your message on my phone. Then I heard the shots.'

'But you were asleep, weren't you?'

'I – I had a dream…' Dad moistens his lips uncertainly. 'Your –' He looks around, looking almost sheepish then whispers, 'I'll tell you later.'

* * *

Recovering over a flask of hot sweet tea and leaning against Dad's car, he and I watch Mr Winslow being guided into the backseat of a police car. The blue lights tint the countryside around us, reflecting off the eyes of the cows that now wander around the yard, thanks to Mr Winslow leaving their gate open. People are still milling about, but everything has calmed down. I see Max walking our way, but then he sees I'm with Dad and he stops. A smile warms his face, warms his eyes, and I realise I mean as much to him as he does to me. He gives me a little wave then turns away to talk to an inquisitive heifer.

'So, it seems you were right about him,' Dad says.

'Who?' I say, still thinking about Max.

'Mr Winslow.' He gives me a wry smile. 'Maybe I should make you a partner in the business.'

I smile in return. 'I was right, but not in the way I expected to be. It wasn't until I realised Holly's Sharp Shot of the Week was of Farmer Ackerman's fire that she might still be alive. And even then, I still thought Jonathan had kidnapped her, him and Dylan. Is it true that Mr Winslow killed Holly's sister?'

Dad nods. 'So it would seem.'

I try to absorb the enormity of such a thing. To kill one's own child, he must have had to be very angry. Or very afraid.

'Why did he kill her?'

Dad points at a man in a trench coat talking to a policeman outside. 'Do you recognise that guy? That's the PI the Winslows hired after I gave up the case. He went over to Germany, discovered Henry Winslow is wanted by police for espionage.'

I gasp. 'Espionage? Who was he spying on?'

'Everyone, by the sounds of things. His books were just a cover. All these research trips that have required the Winslows move from country to country have been nothing more than a cover for his true profession – spying on foreign nationals.'

'And – what, did Georgia find out something that she shouldn't have, like a plot to kill the Queen?'

Dad shrugs. 'It's difficult to speculate, but by the sounds of things, his family didn't even know about his true profession at all. It might have been that Georgia just found out about that bit, never mind the gritty details. Whatever it was, it was enough to warrant Henry Winslow killing his own daughter and attempting to kill his other one when she discovered what he'd done.'

I sit back and blow on my tea. Wow, and I thought Dad and I had a dysfunctional family. 'What'll happen to them now?'

'He'll probably be extradited to Germany to stand trial for espionage and murder, possibly tack on attempted murder of you and Holly too. Either way, he's going to prison for a long, long time.'

'And Holly and her mother? Will they be all right?'

We look out to where Holly is sat in the back of an ambulance, her ankle now strapped and secure. Jonathan is beside her, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

'Holly will be, at least,' says Dad.

The door to the police car slams shut and with a short whoop of the siren, it drives off. Holly waves at us from the ambulance before that door is also shut and they too depart.

* * *

Slowly, as the horizon begins to lighten with the dawn, everyone except the forensic team trickle away.

'You ready to go home? I bet you're tired,' Dad says, straightening up and rounding the hood to open the driver's door.

He saying it reinforces just how late it is and I feel suddenly drained. I desperately want my bed and to cuddle up with Spock. I finish off my tea and put the lid back on the flask. 'Yeah, let's go.' I think of the chaos of tonight, and for the first time remember Dad's words when he finally got here. 'Dad, what was it you were going to say earlier? How did you know I'd left a message on your phone?'

About to get into the car, Dad pauses. 'Your mother,' he says. 'I dreamt – she woke me up. It wasn't like a normal dream…' A little frown creases his forehead. 'She woke me, told me you were in trouble.'

I look back at the activities still going on in the farm yard. I see Max has lost interest in the cows, or is it the other way around? He now stands with two other spirits – Georgia Winslow… and Mum.

Georgia smiles and mouths the words, 'Thank you,' before turning to walk away and disappearing.

Max gives me a thumbs-up and raises an eyebrow in question. I give him a subtle thumbs-up in reply and he winks. We'll have time to talk over events in private soon enough, I know. The message has been delivered; Max is back to stay.

Finally, I turn to my mother. She waves, her clothes rippling like a cascading waterfall. She blows me a kiss and I pretend to catch it. I know that if she's here it means she can't be in Limbus. My mother can't have taken her own life; she never chose death over her family, not by choice. An odd mixture of sadness and joy at seeing her again fills my heart.

'Thank you,' I say.

Dad pauses as he gets into the car. 'I was just doing what any parent would do,' he says.

Watching Mum turn and fade away, I let the miscommunication slide and get into the passenger's seat. I think again of Mr Winslow and what he'd done and what he'd been prepared to do. I give Dad a spontaneous hug.

'Not any parent,' I tell him. 'Let's go home.'

* * *

THE END

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016

* * *

 _ **AUTHOR'S NOTE: Wow! That was a big one to end with! I hope it was a satisfying ending for you and that you enjoyed the book overall. I would love it if you would leave me a review just to say what you felt about it. Did I tie up all the loose ends? Was there anything (like Noa's mother's death, or the reason for Dad's drinking) that you felt was confusing or could have been made clearer?**_

 _ **I have had one beta reader tell me that Girl Missing would be suitable for 11 years up. I was aiming for 14 and up, so I would be very grateful to know what your opinion is (and if you don't mind sharing your age that would be helpful too. If you don't want to make that public maybe drop me a PM, I keep all those confidential!)**_

 _ **Lastly, I hope you'll follow my author profile by clicking on the option below (be sure to select 'Follow Author', not 'Follow Story' as Girl Missing will probably not be updated after this). I'm already working on the next Messenger mystery which I hope to have out in September. By following me you'll be the first to know about it!**_

 _ **A massive thank you to everyone who has read this book, and big big hugs to those who have left reviews. I can't tell you what a difference they made to my writing!**_

 _ **Signing out… H.R. Aidan**_

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